


like a live coal tossed in the sea

by blue_spectacles



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Arranged Marriage, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crossover, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eventual Romance, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sharing a Bed, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Wing Kink, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 91,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spectacles/pseuds/blue_spectacles
Summary: AU in which Crowley is Sabrina’s father. Crowley is still a demon and Aziraphale is still an angel, but they have never met. An arranged marriage to end the Heaven/Hell conflict forces Aziraphale to live with not only a demon, but an entire family of Satanic witches - as Crowley comes with not only a daughter, but two sisters and a nephew.Complicating matters, Aziraphale spent the past eighty years being horribly abused by Gabriel and has no idea how to act around his new husband. He expects every action to result in punishment, because that’s how Gabriel treated him. Slowly, with help from his new family, he begins to come out of his shell.But Heaven doesn’t want the war with Hell to end, and both sides become frustrated that the marriage - meant to be little more than a cruel joke - has resulted in actual peace. Both sides are determined to make sure that this peace won’t last - and where will that leave Crowley and Aziraphale?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 355
Kudos: 606





	1. How Crowley Met His Sisters

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning Note: please heed the tags. There is rape/non-con and dub-con in this fic. If that may be triggering for you, please skip this fic!**
> 
> Additional Note: I play fast and loose with the Spellman family history.

1693

Greendale (USA)

The girl was crying. Crowley shifted in the loose soil beneath the apple tree and did his level best to ignore it. He hadn’t travelled to the so-called New World to help crying children, after all.

The village was built on what had once been a barren crater. Or, more accurately: the wound in the skin of the world where Lucifer had fallen. It seemed the sort of place a self-respecting demon should see at least once in his existence. Spread some mischief, raise some mayhem. But then, when he got there, he decided to take a nap instead.

The apple tree was old, with nice roots for coiling about, and deep enough in the wood that he shouldn’t have been bothered by anyone. So, of course, it was the very spot some random girl decided to cry her heart out. That was Crowley’s luck, alright.

He tasted the air with a flick of his tongue and was momentarily surprised that the girl was not mortal. No; she was of the tribe of Lilith.

Well, he should have known, he told himself. Satan had his own little side-project going on in Greendale. Hell sent out memoranda regarding the witches who signed His Book in exchange for long lifespans and occult powers, but Crowley only ever looked at the woodcuts.

The girl was really sobbing, however, and he’d never be able to sleep with that racket. So he slithered slowly around the roots, pushing through the warm cradle of soil, and poked his nose out from the base of the tree.

The girl was blonde, about sixteen or thereabouts, dressed in the typical wool dress and apron of this time and place. “But we’re just _abandoning_ them!” she said. “We – we can’t –”

“It’s for the good of the coven,” said another girl, slightly older, her hair slightly redder. “Now you stop this foolishness, this instant, Hilda! The mortals will suspect you. It’s bad enough we’re out in the woods at this hour. You know what foolish ideas they get. And don’t think I’ll stick my neck out to save you.”

“But I don’t understand. We pledged our names in the Book of the Beast . . . all of us. Why isn’t He doing anything? He could _save_ them –”

“The Dark Lord has more important things to consider than helping some witches who were foolish enough to get caught in the first place!”

“But _thirteen_ of us, Zelda! Thirteen girls –”

“It’ll be _fourteen_ if you keep this up –” the older girl sneered. The sneer fell off her face, when she noticed the large black snake gliding through the leaves. “Hilda!”

The other girl was dabbing her face with the corners of her apron. “What?”

“Shut up. No, _really,_ be quiet and stay still – I—” 

Hilda glanced around, blinking in confusion. And found herself face-to-face with a giant snake that was raising its head, flicking its tongue at her. Screaming, she jumped to her feet, barreling into her sister, who caught her. 

Crowley tilted his head, ready to introduce himself, when a rock sailed through the air and struck him in the face.

“Stay away from her, you . . . _oh_.”

Gasps as he shimmered and took on his human form. Albeit, he was still crouched in the leaves, rubbing his bleeding face, so it wasn’t the most graceful transformation he’d ever done. 

“Oh, Master forgive us,” they knelt before him.

“What? No, don’t . . . don’t do that.” A minor demonic miracle fixed his face, and he summoned the usual tinted spectacles he wore to cover his eyes – the only part of himself he could not disguise. “I’m not . . . _Him_ ,” he said slowly. “I just came up to see what all the fuss was about.”

They stared at him, fascinated, but not terrified like humans would be. He realized he didn’t actually need to wear the glasses, and took them off, blinking. What a strange feeling.

“Well . . . oh, Great Demon Lord,” began the elder of the two, bowing (which was quite a feat since they were all currently kneeling.)

“No . . . sorry, I’m not, I’m not a lord. I wouldn’t even be considered for village mayor, down there.”

“Zelda, a demon! A real, actual demon!” Hilda whispered, excitedly.

Zelda, on the other hand, was looking a bit disappointed by this point.

“Name’s Crowley. Anthony Crowley, in the mortal world. I was trying to sleep,” he explained, trying to get this back on track. “You were crying.”

“Oh, Mr. Crowley, it’s terrible –” said Hilda, “they’ve already hung thirteen of us. Thirteen witches.”

“But the coven has not been exposed,” said Zelda firmly. “The Church of Night continues as it always has in Greendale, and always will. Praise Satan.”

“But we don’t know they won’t find anyone else!” said Hilda.

The two sisters began bickering again, while Crowley just sat there, watching. It was interesting. He’d not given much thought to the descendants of Lilith, but they would live longer than mortals and they knew about demons. And he’d spent thousands of years with no one for company but himself and he was, frankly, tired of the wily old serpent.

But what would he do, in Greendale? He’d played at being a knight, an aristocrat, any number of human jobs. “Come on, then,” he sighed, standing up and brushing the dirt and leaves off his new pilgrim clothes. “I’ll take you back to your parents, in the village.”

“Our parents are dead, whoever they were,” said Zelda. “The Church of Night provides for us.”

“Or _did,_ half of them were hanged,” Hilda reminded her, still sniffling.

Even Zelda didn’t have anything to say to that. She pressed her lips together in a thin frown.

“It might be dangerous for witches in these parts for a while,” he warned them. “You might want to leave for a bit. I know, I know –” he raised his hand, forestalling the torrent of objections he could already see coming from Zelda, “Greendale is sacred ground. The coven needs to be here, blah, blah, blah . . . here’s the thing. You’ve already signed the Book, haven’t you?” Both girls nodded. “So you’ll live for a long time. Hundreds of years. You’re going to have to leave and come back . . . and leave and come back . . . many times, otherwise the mortals will notice. It’s alright. You’ll come back. The coven will be rebuilt.”

They discussed this while they walked through the Greendale forest. Another reason to leave – he could feel the restless spirits of the witches who had been hanged. They were not powerful yet, but they would be. A forest full of hungry ghosts was suddenly a less appealing place for a nap.

“Hmph,” said Zelda. She resorted to glaring at him as they walked.

“Well, you see, Mr. Demon-”

“Oh. Oh no. Please don’t call me that.”

“Right. Ha,” Hilda laughed nervously. “Crowley. It’s just that, well, even if we wanted to, we haven’t exactly got any money, you see –”

“ _Hilda_ ,” Zelda hissed, affronted, as though they hadn’t already admitted they were orphans. _She’s a proud one_ , Crowley thought. He almost thought, _Satan would love her,_ but Satan didn’t love anybody.

Demons didn’t love anybody. Demons were solitary creatures. Vicious, black-hearted, intrinsically selfish creatures, everything remotely good about them burnt away to a crisp in the infernal fires.

“You could come with me,” he said.

Hilda let out another nervous laugh. They both stopped walking. For a moment, Crowley was confused. Zelda held her head high, shoulders back. “We are most certainly _not_ going to join the harem of some lesser demon.”

“What?” he blinked at her. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “no, no, no, no, no. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that’s not what I meant! I don’t need _a harem_. I just want some mates, you know?”

Zelda sniffed, rolling her eyes. _Rolling her eyes at him!_ A demon! Yeah, alright, he had told them he ranked at about the same level as your average footstool when it came to demonic hierarchies. But still. It hurt a little.

“W-e-ell . . .” Hilda said, looking between the two of them. “It’s not a bad idea, is it, Zel? I mean, an unmarried woman without a male relative can’t get very far in this world. It might be nice to have, oh, I don’t know, an older brother, looking out for us?”

Zelda continued to look unimpressed. 

“I could be an older sister, if you prefer, I don’t really give a toss, gender-wise,” Crowley told them. “But Hilda has a point. In this time and place it’s good to have an older male relative around. Especially if the witch-hunters come sniffing.”

“I suppose . . .” Zelda relented, just a tiny bit. “You _can_ turn into a giant snake. That’s something.”

“See? Oh, this will be fun!” Hilda giggled, linking her arms through both his and Zelda’s.

By the time they got into town, they were already thinking of names for their new “family.” A demon’s name was always a mask, anyway. After all, he’d gone from being [redacted], to being Crawley, to being Crowley, to being Anthony Crowley . . . to being Crowley Spellman, older brother of Hilda and Zelda Spellman.

Spellman, yeah. They all had a good laugh at that.


	2. Arrangements Are Made

H E L L

Having a daughter was the most stupid and wonderful thing Crowley had ever done in his six thousand years of existence. Her name was Sabrina Spellman, and he missed her every moment he was away. She was about to turn sixteen, which was an important age for a witch. His boss – Satan – would be there, and it was really grossly unfair that Crowley probably wouldn’t be. 

Because of the war.

Because of the stupid bloody never-ending war with stupid bloody eternally righteous Heaven that neither side could ever truly win. Or lose. Yet they still fought it. Because demons and angels, which were basically the same thing when you got down to it, were really stubborn. And stupid. And at the moment, Crowley hated all of them. And he hated that he’d been drafted – even if it was for a relatively cushy gig.

Yes, he was currently sprawled across his throne – his own throne, in his own castle. He shifted, frowned, and stared up at the oozing black ceiling. Course, it was too much to ask that he also be comfortable, but that was Downstairs, for you.

He wanted to go home.

Dangerous, to think of Earth as home. To think of Greendale. Of the mortuary. The academy. His sisters. Of his daughter. Sabrina, most of all, he wanted to see. Sabrina, about to turn sixteen and really come into her powers. She must be scared. Excited. She must have questions . . .

“G – Sat – _Someone, Damn It_!” he shouted, driving a fist straight through one of the arms of his throne. He snorted as it crumbled. Everything in Hell was more or less illusion, more or less unsatisfying.

“Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?” Ligur asked, materializing into the vaulted chambers. He was covered with blood – somebody else’s, judging by his grin. “Too much work for you, sitting around on a bleedin’ throne, while the rest of us go off an’ fight?”

Crowley just sighed. Ligur and his buddy, Hastur, had never forgiven him for rising through the ranks. And he was willing to bet they weren’t alone in their resentment, but he didn’t exactly go around asking demons what they thought of him. He wasn’t suicidal. “Ligur. Always a pleasure. How goes it on the front lines of eternal, unending entropy?”

The demon scowled at him. “Such a bloody wanker,” he muttered.

Crowley rolled his eyes. Okay, so he had perhaps embellished his reports over the past few centuries with one too many hyperboles. But his sisters had been so proud of his commendations, and he hadn’t really ever expected Management to take notice. But Satan was going through a ‘hands on’ approach lately. Which wasn’t good for anybody.

“Listen, nimrod, you’d best summon the Dark Council, ‘cause we got big news.”

“News? How can there be news? The war is always the same. We lose some, they lose some, back and forth, evenly matched, forever and –”

“Will you shut up?” Hastur appeared on the other end of the chamber. He stank, like always. Crowley scrunched his nose up and returned to staring at the ceiling in boredom. “Ligur’s right. Summon the council. Or don’t, and I’ll dance on your entrails when the Dark Lord eviscerates you.”

Crowley sighed, propping his chin on his hand. “Alright. And what is so special that you want me to drag old Methuselah out of his crypt-”

“Heaven wants to deal.”

Crowley’s chin slipped off his hand and he almost slid right off his throne. “ _What?”_

“Yeah, think you’re so smart now, do you?” Hastur asked, looking smug. “They sent a messenger. Real official like. Want a – a whatchacallit.”

“Conference? Summit? Negotiation . . .” Crowley trailed off. He tugged a hand through his long red hair. It was unreal. Hastur and Ligur had to be having him on.

But then Beelzebub appeared in a swarm of flies that filled the void, up into the melting ceilings. The insects screamed, in their own way, to find themselves transported to the nether reaches of space, and quickly crowded around their favorite demon’s face. Through the writhing mass of shiny, flittering bodies, Beezlebub spoke: “summon the council, you idiot. Heaven’s coming.”

THE SILVER CITY (HEAVEN)

Aziraphale stood, waiting for Gabriel in the high offices of the archangels. He was waiting for their appointment – although he saw Gabriel every day, since being made his official secretary, so it was a bit odd that they had to have an official appointment. Maybe it was another performance review, in which Gabriel would reprimand him, again, for all of the ways he was inadequate. Those were . . . not pleasant. Aziraphale swallowed, and couldn’t help worrying his hands together nervously. If he’d been human, he would have been sweating.

He missed Earth terribly, and serving Gabriel was . . . exhausting. Not that he would ever admit that, of course. Serving an archangel was a great honor. A great, great honor. And his own feelings didn’t factor into it.

His own feelings were quite often selfish and stupid and unworthy of an angel.

But, oh, in his heart of hearts, Aziraphale missed his time spent in the mortal world. It was his own fault, of course, that Management had recalled him to Home Office. Too many discorporations.

That incident where he’d accidentally let a pair of Nazis get away with his prized books of prophecy in addition to discorporating his mortal body, had been the last straw for everybody. Aziraphale understood. He was still disgusted with himself for that. He was so stupid. He deserved to be here, assisting Gabriel.

No, it was _more_ than he deserved. He should be grateful he wasn’t Fallen. And he was. The only thing he wanted, in the whole of Creation, was to be good.

_But - but – but -_ a traitorous voice in the back of his head said, _I wonder how many books have been written since 1945?_

Aziraphale wandered through the rooms, coming at last to the observatory. Immense windows looked out across a cityscape from Earth. It was currently Singapore. In an hour it might be New York, or Tokyo, or Toronto. He wanted to see London again. Wished for it. But that was just more selfishness.

Gabriel cleared his throat, and Aziraphale fought not to cringe. “Lord Gabriel, forgive me – I - I was only -”

“Nonsense, take your time, admire the view, impressive, isn’t it?” Gabriel shook his head, speaking too fast and smiling a hard corporate grin. “But we _do_ have the little matter of your mission to discuss, don’t we?”

“M-mission?”

Aziraphale swayed. As far as he was aware, he was done with “missions.” Michael had assigned him to be Gabriel’s assistant seventy-five years ago, and that was it.

Gabriel simply plowed on, regardless. “You _are_ familiar with the Fallen, aren’t you? Our adversaries? And the Coming War, in which we will defeat them decisively, once and for all, ushering in an eternal paradise? Yada, yada, et cetera, et cetera.” Gabriel was speaking too fast, pacing.

“And the war, the war that’s _always_ waging. Michael beats Lucifer, but cannot destroy him. On and on. There’s _supposed_ to be an Anti-Christ, but the millennia role by and no sign, so far. It’s . . . frankly, disappointing. Frankly, infuriating! And-” he spun on his heel so suddenly he nearly collided with Aziraphale, who hurriedly shuffled back a few steps. “I’ll be honest with you, Aziraphale. Heaven is not performing . . . as optimally as one would prefer.”

Aziraphale could only stare at the archangel, afraid to speak. Certain that whatever he said, it would be the _wrong_ thing.

“We just need . . . time. A distraction. A delay,” his gaze fell upon Aziraphale, as though he’d only just remembered he was there. “We need a sacrifice.”

Aziraphale felt a wave of cold wash over him. Gabriel was clearly implying something not good, but he was still confused. “But how? What . . .?”

“We have suggested . . . and Hell seems agreeable . . . a union. One of Lucifer’s chosen princes will be bound to one of our angels. It’s not the rite of holy matrimony, for obvious reasons, but some sort of bastardized ritual. Whatever they do down there to pair up. _Un_ holy matrimony?” he looked like he’d just bitten a lemon.

“Wait, you’re talking about _marriage_?”

Gabriel silenced him with a look. Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow hot.

“The _point is_ , this demon lord would have an angel bound to him, subservient in every way. You can see why they wouldn’t refuse.”

“Well . . . ending the war . . . would be . . .”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid!” Gabriel snapped. “You know the demons are brutish psychopaths. Some “prince” wants an angel to torture and degrade for the entertainment of whatever lesser demons are beneath his command. It makes them look strong, and makes us look weak. The angel . . .” Gabriel moved closer, straightening the collar of Aziraphale’s beige jacket, mouth curling in disdain at the tartan bow tie. “The angel in question will have to, of course, obey this monster completely. To show that our side is sincere. Pure. Willing to sacrifice for the greater good.”

Aziraphale stared at Gabriel. And then he stared some more. He found he couldn’t breathe, so it was a good thing he didn’t need to. If he were human, he’d probably have fainted. “Um . . . I - I probably don’t need to ask, but . . . uh-um . . . the angel in question . . .”

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Gabriel sighed, patting his shoulder, “let’s face it. You were never really cut out to be a warrior, were you? You’re soft. You’re stupid. You even lost your flaming sword.”

Aziraphale’s face flushed red where he hadn’t gone deathly pale. He’s looked at his shoes. He wasn’t Falling, but he _felt_ like he was. What else could describe the sensation of his insides dropping out from underneath him? Dread coiled in his stomach and his blood turned to ice water.

Gabriel smiled at him without a trace of kindness. “This is probably the best contribution you could hope to make.”

Greendale (USA)

Her Dark Baptism was only days away, and Sabrina Spellman had been having trouble sleeping all week. All month, really. The approaching ceremony was equal parts exciting and terrifying. She tried not to think about how much she wished her father was there, but he’d been summoned by the Dark Lord _months_ ago, and no one would tell her where he was, if he was even on _Earth_ anymore, let alone when he’d be home.

Whenever she asked her aunties if he’d be back in time for her birthday, they’d just look at each other and say, “we’ll see, dear.” Which wasn’t helpful at all. Of course, she could talk to Aunt Hilda and Aunt Zelda about her doubts. Of course. But it wasn’t the same and ohh – she tripped, falling face first in a pile of dead leaves.

Sabrina sat up, brushing herself off. Right. _Concentrate on what you’re doing,_ she told herself. She took a deep breath. She was in the forest, preparing to summon a familiar.

That morning, Aunt Z had shown her a catalogue of registered familiars. She’d suggested a hedgehog, or perhaps a snake, in honor of her father. Though frankly, Sabrina thought that would be a _little_ weird. So, no, she was determined to get her own familiar – and not one ordered from a catalogue.

She tried to imagine what her dad would say, if he were there. Being a demon, he didn’t need a familiar. “I’m my _own_ familiar,” he would say, with a grin, and shapeshift into a black python.

_Show off,_ she thought, with a smile.

Sometimes she thought about how different her life was from her mortal friends. She was sure they hadn’t spent their toddler years playing with a fifty-foot snake who sometimes even spent the night coiled protectively around her bassinet. Of course, she couldn’t remember that, but Aunt Hilda never got tired of recounting how hard it had been to teach Sabrina to walk, with that snake in the way, determined to never let her fall.

Taking a stick from the forest floor, Sabrina inscribed an ancient rune in the dirt, uttering the incantation that would (hopefully) bring a willing familiar to her side.

But nothing happened. The air grew colder, all of a sudden. The hair on the back of her neck prickled.

_The Weird Sisters_.

They surrounded her, the three-in-one, self-proclaimed “defenders” of the Academy of Unseen Arts. She’d known them her entire life, and they’d always hated her.

Beautiful, snobby, poisonous girls.

“Summoning spell, Sabrina?” Prudence, their leader, asked. Her tone lilting and mocking. She arched one eyebrow, looking at her like Sabrina was something unpleasant she’d scraped off her shoe. “So you _are_ being baptised. The rumors are true. We wondered, you know. Since your mother . . .”

Sabrina swallowed, not wanting to turn her back on any of them – the Weird Sisters were dangerous – but they spread out, surrounding her. Prudence stepped up the hill, so that she could look _down_ at Sabrina. As always, Prudence hair and make-up were perfect. She looked regal. And not for the first time, Sabrina found herself wishing they could be friends instead of enemies.

“Are we to assume this means you’ll be transferring to the Academy of Unseen Arts?”

“Well . . . yeah. I always going to go there.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Prudence, and Sabrina’s earlier wish dissolved.

She clenched her hands into fists. “Um, hello? My father is literally the headmaster.”

Prudence gave her an amused look. “Oh please. Everyone knows that Master Crowley does . . . _little_ at the academy. It’s his assistant, Father Blackwood, who truly runs things.”

“ _Excuse_ me? Would you say that to his face?”

“Isn’t daddy dearest presently MIA?” Dorcas asked, stalking uncomfortably close. However, Sabrina wasn’t willing to back away. She glared at the other girl.

“He’s on a mission for the Dark Lord,” she said stiffly. “We’re very proud.”

“Yes . . . but _should_ you be?” challenged Agatha, forcing Sabrina to spin around to face the third girl. “There are those who say the Dark Lord never entirely forgave your father for marrying that mortal sow you call a mother.”

Sabrina lunged forwards. Prudence caught her arm in an iron grasp. She was stronger than she looked. Her nails dug into Sabrina’s skin. “How dare you –” taking a deep breath, she wrenched her arm free. “Anyone who says that is wrong.”

“Perhaps.” Prudence shrugged easily, “or a perhaps this is His opportunity to finish what He began with your mother.” A smile teased the corners of her lips, as Sabrina felt her heart sinking.

“What makes you think your father is _ever_ coming back?”

“Shut up!” she shouted.

Dorcas and Agatha giggled, pleased with her reaction. Happy she was hurt. “And that will just leave . . . you.” They whispered in unison, leaning closer.

Sabrina shoved them out of the way, running back to the path. Their laughter followed her the entire way, as she stumbled, blinking tears out of her eyes.

H E L L

Crowley thought it was all such _bullshit_. And he was pissed. The demons were absolutely beside themselves over the whole “arranged marriage” bit – pulling one of those fluffy featherheads out of the Silver City, dragging them through the muck, really soiling their precious feathers. Tarnishing that halo.

And, sure. Angels were pompous blowhards who wouldn’t back out of a thing on principal, even if it turned out to be stupid and excruciating, so the game would become just _how_ excruciating could the demon make things before Heaven eventually folded and they had their stupid pre-destined war anyways.

Yes, the demons think it’s an absolute _scream,_ and who could blame them? _But why does it have to be him?_

What is he to do, with an angel, on Earth? Angels are buzzkills of the highest order – they don’t drink, or dance, or swear. Not to mention - can he _trust_ an angel with his family (of course not.) Just the thought of angels makes him think of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, of flaming swords and divine wrath. Of the Flood and all those dead children . . . And to imagine _that_ coming anywhere near his daughter . . .

“Get on the train, Crowley,” said Beelzebub. Their voice was underscored by the thrum of the hundred thousand flies that circled them. The flies seemed to be humming along in agreement and Crowley genuinely wasn’t sure if that was just in his head or not.

Crowley brushed one of the flies off his black jacket very, _very_ carefully. One _doesn’t_ swat them with Beelzebub watching. Even if one was technically a “prince.”

“. . . no.”

He knew he sounded petulant, but what were they gonna do? Leave without him? He was the groom! Or bride. It was possibly his last chance to wear a wedding dress. _No,_ he decided, this angel didn’t deserve the sight of Crowley in a wedding dress. 

Beezlebub rolled their eyes, unimpressed by his drama. “Crowley . . . I swear to Satan, get on this train or that angel is going to be marrying a pile of guts and some loosely scattered limbs.”

Hastur and Ligur took this as their cue to amble over, both no doubt remembering how much they hated Crowley.

“What’s the problem, mate?” Ligur asked. “Your own personal angel to torture, sounds pretty sweet. You could rip his wings out, a feather at a time.”

“Hey, yeah that’s a good one,” said Hastur. Crowley wrinkled his nose as the white-haired demon shambled closer. Hastur always smelt deeply unpleasant. “And I suppose, after you’ve had a chance to break ‘im in, you’ll be wantin’ to share the fresh meat with us?”

Crowley leaned back a little, mostly trying to evade the smell. “Hastur, I wouldn’t share a newspaper with you, let alone my future bride.” Groom? Details were vague.

Hastur scowled at him a second. “. . . what’s a newspaper?”

Some days Crowley really hated demons. Demons, angels, sod the whole lot of them. But he wanted to go back to Greendale. He wanted to be with Sabrina on the night of her Dark Baptism. And to do _that,_ he needed to do _this,_ and get it over with fast. Then he could dump the angel somewhere and go home. Right?

Beelzebub whacked Hastur on the shoulder, shoving him aside and leaving a clear path from Crowley to the train. It looked like a black steam locomotive straight out of the 19th century. But that wasn’t coal burning in its trans-dimensional boiler.

“Alright, you’ve wasted enough time,” they gestured. “Get on.”

Crowley always enjoyed a good astral train, but this one was taking him to meet with the Dark Council and the delegation from the Silver City.

Beelzebub threw up their hands. “Come on!”

The buzzing grew until it was overpowering and Crowley found himself brushing more and more flies away from his face. Blinking, he turned as the thrumming rose to the pitch of a helicopter and the sight was almost enough to make a demon jumpy. Thousands of flies – _millions_ – descended on them in a swirling black cloud.

Beelzebub smirked as Crowley rushed past them and hurled himself into the train. Hastur and Ligur followed, the doors sliding shut behind them as the swarm descended, slamming into the doors and windows.

The train whistle blew. Outside, Beelzebub laughed and flipped him off.


	3. the wedding and the wedding night

The ceremony did not take place in a proper church, since the demons would have been in pain the entire time.

There was a small abandoned and desecrated church outside the city limits of Greendale. The holy water font had been buried; everything had been done to deconsecrate the grounds. The structure itself was beginning to crumble; overgrown with ivy and moss. The inside was littered with dirt and the holy items had long been removed. Satanic banners hung from the walls, and dozens of candles glittered in iron sconces and candelabras, casting their reddish glow along the old stone. The wooden pews remained, some in better shape than others, and currently holding an assortment of loud, carousing demons and tight-lipped angels.

Aziraphale was terrified to enter.

A little way from the front doors was a bubble dimension, where he stood with the archangels as they gave him the final once-over. Michael observed his attire with a grimace. The long tuxedo jacket was beige, trimmed in gold and only about a century out of date. The shirt beneath had ruffles above the white waistcoat and matching white trousers.

Gabriel regarded at him with disdain. “I’m not sure this suit is quite in keeping with modern human fashion.”

Mind spinning with everything else, Aziraphale very nearly vomited on Gabriel’s shoes and only managed not to on account of a minor miracle.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Michael. Then, to Aziraphale: “extend your wings.”

He hesitated and her grey eyes hardened.

“ _Now._ ”

They began as pure light, then slowly coalesced into feathers and bone, flesh and cartilage. Michael grabbed his right wing roughly. Aziraphale flinched.

“Hold them higher – _higher_ , I said!”

She and Gabriel bound his wings up with ribbon miracled to be supernaturally strong. It held his wings in the painful position Michael had pulled them into – straight up – which became more uncomfortable by the second as his muscles cramped.

He doubted that asking _why_ would get him anywhere. And he was too overwhelmed to think of arguing with archangels. What if they abandoned him? Of course, that was the plan, but he wanted to hang onto their familiar presence for as long as possible. So Aziraphale said nothing as Michael tightened the bindings so hard it made his eyes water.

They didn’t say anything else to him. No words of comfort. Not even goodbye, as they led him out of their temporary bubble and into the desecrated church. Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t have expected anything, but still.

His heart plummeted further as they passed beneath the arch of the front doors. The inside air of the church was freezing cold.

He glanced at Gabriel. The archangel led him to the aisle with a grim expression. Michael hung back, guarding the exit. Aziraphale wondered if she was there to stop him if he tried to make a run for it, and decided he didn’t want to find out.

Aziraphale wished for something, anything, from either of them. Even just a split-second glance, or a squeeze of his hand, or a pat on the shoulder. Anything to tell him that he was not alone.

They marched down the aisle like Aziraphale was going to his execution, which he supposed was apt. The Unholy Altar was lined with fat, dripping black candles. The windows were streaked with dirt and mud in the places where they weren’t overgrown with ivy. Not a trace of outside light got in.

His stomach twisted into more knots. His skin was clammy and sweat poured from his palms and down his neck. His wings _hurt._

Then came a second where he just _couldn’t_ move. His feet refused to step forwards. Gabriel gripped his elbow painfully hard and _dragged_ him the next couple of steps. The archangel was strong enough to do so without making it obvious to the crowd. Not that Aziraphale supposed it would matter.

The pews were packed with demons. They twisted and writhed in the shadows, literally oozing, leaving trails of slime on the seats and floor. Out of the corner of his eye, they looked like toads and giant spiders, lizards and bats, but whenever Aziraphale turned to look at them directly they were always in human form. Dressed in tattered old jackets, mud caked and grass-stained trousers, or at best the remains of a tattered suit. They sneered openly at him and began hollering things as he walked past. They whistled and jeered. He tried not to hear it.

There were angels in attendance, but they were still and silent and their eyes stared straight through him.

Aziraphale stumbled, but Gabriel’s bruising grip didn’t allow him to fall. He sensed the irritation rising off the archangel, as though Aziraphale had done it deliberately. He hadn’t. He wanted to be good. Only . . . only the floor felt like quicksand. And he was forgetting how to work his feet.

All this time he had been determinedly _not_ looking at the end of the aisle, where his demonic groom was waiting. He didn’t want to see.

He knew it was foolish. He was going to get there eventually, step by painful step.

A demon sitting near the aisle – a greasy looking man with white hair and black eyes, or an enormous toad covered in warts – reached for him, raspy voice yelling something rude Aziraphale couldn’t hear over all the other rude things being shouted at him. He stumbled against Gabriel, who released his arm and shoved him off so hard that it took everything, absolutely _everything_ in Aziraphale not to cry –

There was a sound of air being displaced, a great _woosh_ , and a shadow fell over the few flickering candles and momentarily drowned them all in darkness. The demons fell silent. The toad cringed back in his seat.

In the silence and the cool dark, Aziraphale was suddenly aware of his heart beating, his hands shaking. He looked towards the front of the church for the first time.

The demon prince had opened his wings. They were raven black.

His hair was longish, brushing his shoulders, and red. His clothes were human. Modern. Not overly formal, he wore dark jeans and a black jacket, tie loosely dangling as though he had started putting it on and forgot about it half-ways. Even in the near total darkness of the church he wore dark lenses over his eyes.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” he said.

A human – no, a _warlock_ , with slicked back hair, dressed in flowing robes, approached. Father Faustus Blackwood of the Church of Night. A Satanist priest, _of course,_ Aziraphale felt almost like laughing. Or crying. This was horrible. Inexorable, and yet – his duty. The will of Heaven. Absolutely irrefutable.

“Welcome, witches and warlocks . . .” Father Blackwood took a breath, steadying himself. “Apologies . . .” his grin was tight and forced. “Demons and . . . angels, join us this night, to bind this angel, the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and the Demon Lord Crowley, Prince of Hell, known to our community as Crowley Spellman, in Unholy Union.”

_Crowley,_ was it? Aziraphale risked another glance. The demon just looked bored, not particularly interested in Aziraphale one way or the other, which he supposed was a good thing, considering. Though it was hard to tell precisely what he was thinking, with those dark glasses on. Aziraphale wondered why he wore them. There were some demons who had eyes full of teeth. Aziraphale really, really hoped that wasn’t the case.

The Satanic priest continued, and although he looked far from pleased with events, he claimed, “it is an honor for the Church of Night, that I, Father Blackwood, should conduct this Unholy Union, in the presence of the Dark Lord and all His great disciples. Truly this marks an . . . historic occasion. For both sides,” the sneer which accompanied that statement, aimed at Aziraphale, could not be disguised.

Gabriel and Michael made no objections, not that he expected them to.

“In the name of Satan, I call forth the demons who rule marriage and lust,” Father Blackwood began.

Crowley groaned audibly, rolling not just his eyes, but his entire head back on his shoulders. “ _Really,_ Faustus? I mean, half of them are literally here,” he waved to the crowd. A tentacle somewhere near the back returned the gesture.

The priest ignored them all, plowing ahead with his material: “Ashtoreth –“

Crowley let out a bark of laughter.

“Fufur, Hathor and Ishtar . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, got on with it, man.”

“. . . be here, and forge this union, like fire forges the blade,” Blackwood spat out in a rush, glaring at Crowley. Aziraphale had the sense they knew each other. Well, he did think Crowley was being a little rude. Not that he particularly cared if they thanked all the appropriate demons for the ceremony, but the poor warlock was just trying to do his job.

Of course, he was probably going to have a lot more to worry about than one Satanist’s feelings, very shortly.

“Hey, sorry, but what’s with the wings?” Crowley asked, interrupting both the priest’s speech and Aziraphale’s quietly spiraling terror. “It’s bothering me. Is that a fashion choice? It doesn’t look very comfortable.” And just like that he was reminded that his wings _hurt_ in their bindings. Crowley was peering up at them, frowning slightly.

“It’s not,” he said, without thinking. “Uh – I mean – I don’t know. The archangels thought . . .they thought it was the thing to do, I suppose.”

“The ‘thing to do?’” Crowley repeated, mockingly.

Aziraphale couldn’t look at him. It was almost the sort of thing Gabriel would say. Meaning, he should be used to it, but . . .

The priest cleared his throat.

“Demons of the Deep . . . accept this gift of blood,” he gestured to a young witch with glasses and mounds of thick black hair. “Sister Anathema, if you please . . .” the girl raised a (thankfully already deceased) rabbit by its feet, slicing its throat so that blood dribbled down into a large bronze goblet.

Aziraphale felt sick, looking at it, though Crowley, when he glanced back at him, was still studying his wings.

“Can’t you take it off?” he asked, rather loudly. Demon prince or not, Father Blackwood looked ready to throw the rabbit blood right in his face. “It’s just,” he said, more to Blackwood than Aziraphale, “my wings are itching, just looking at that. I can’t stand it.” He was shifting from foot to foot now.

Aziraphale glanced up, though he couldn’t quite see them properly from this angle, and he feared Michael had gotten awfully complicated with the knots. He would have liked to just _rip_ the ribbons off, but he gave an experimental tug with his wings and that made them tighten. He couldn’t hide his wince.

The next thing he knew, Crowley was standing closer, then moving behind him, reaching up. He felt a gentle tugging as Crowley caught the end of one of the ribbons. Aziraphale instinctively tensed, but then Crowley did something nimble with his fingers and the bindings all unraveled, slithering to the floor in bright streamers.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His wings were stiff and cramped, but Crowley’s hands were on them, slowly, slowly helping him lower them into a comfortable position. He trembled and his wings jerked under Crowley’s touch. 

“Go on with the pretty speeches, Faustus, you’re doing a bang-up job, don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you with the Big Man,” Crowley called to the priest. “Seriously, don’t mind me. Naughty demon and all that. I just can’t help unwrapping my present a little early.”

Blackwood was openly rolling his eyes now. “You make a mockery of . . . oh, what’s the use? Drink the damn blood,” he whispered, thrusting the goblet into Aziraphale’s hands. To the congregation at large he intoned, “the couple will now fortify their physical strength with the blood of this sacrifice.”

“Umm . . .” said Aziraphale, who didn’t want to be rude and also did not want to drink blood.

“Just fake it, you idiot,” a voice whispered gruffly in his ear.

He was startled, but did as he was told, hesitatingly raising the goblet, which was so large – and the amount of blood so relatively small – that it wasn’t actually difficult to pretend to drink from it without actually doing so. Crowley plucked the cup from his hands a second later, took a decidedly not-fake swig from it, draining the entire thing and tossed it rather unceremoniously aside. It clanged loudly against the floor.

The demons cheered. All was well.

Blackwood continued.

Crowley lightly stroked the back of his wings. Aziraphale trembled. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched his wings. His breath hitched and Crowley dropped his hand, moving to stand beside him at the Unholy Altar again.

“The hand of the angel will now be sheathed with yours under the skin of a mortal . . .”

_Oh, please let that not be human skin,_ Aziraphale thought, wincing as Crowley raised his hand and he was obliged to place his underneath. The young witch, Anathema, wrapped a long piece of . . . leather . . . around them, binding them together. Crowley, he noticed, was back to looking bored.

“Now, in the name of Satan . . . and I suppose, your, err, false, god,” he added awkwardly, looking at Aziraphale for the first time. “You, the Principality Aziraphale shall swear to respect, obey, and submit to Lord Crowley, Prince of Hell.”

He opened his mouth and almost – _almost_ said something probably very foolish. But he glanced over his shoulder at the archangels, and their expressions were like stone. This was what they wanted, wasn’t it? He swallowed, looked back at the priest, and nodded. “Alright, I . . . I swear it.”

Crowley, he noted, was not asked to swear any similar vows.

“Now, by the unholy power invested in me by the Church of Night and the Dark Council I declare your union sanctified and unbreakable, forevermore,” this said in a rush, like he couldn’t wait to be out of there. Not that Aziraphale blamed him.

The bindings were removed from their hands. Father Blackwood and Sister Anathema quickly excused themselves.

The demons began chattering loudly, jabbing one another, shifting and stamping their feet. The angels stood in unison and vanished. Aziraphale had been afraid for so long, he didn’t realize he could feel _worse,_ but somehow, seeing them vanish like that, silently and altogether, made something inside of him break. He trembled, unsure what to do.

A group of beings in long black robes rose from the front pews, stalking towards them. “Ugh, the Council,” Crowley muttered, stepping between them. “ _What_ , Methuselah?”

A warlock or demon who certainly looked old enough to be called “Methuselah” moved slowly towards them, eyeing them up and down. “It seems the ceremony is not yet over,” he said in a raspy voice.

“What are you talking about it?” Crowley snapped. “Of course it is. We’re married. It’s done.”

“Not . . . quite.”

“Oh, for the love of Satan.”

“What? What is he talking about?” Aziraphale asked, blinking, as Crowley turned to him, and he thought, studied him from beneath his dark spectacles. For the first time the demon looked a little uncomfortable. That couldn’t be good.

“He _means_ the wedding hasn’t been . . . y’know.” Vague hand gesture.

Aziraphale stared, uncomprehending.

Crowley groaned. “ _Consummated_.”

“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale felt himself blushing. Probably bright scarlet. Crowley looked away, scowling at the old man.

“Can’t you just _trust_ that we’ll do it?”

Methuselah smiled. “Certainly not,” he said cheerfully. “In fact, given the historic importance of this union – the first of its kind, after all – the Council deems it only right that the union be witnessed.”

Crowley buried his face in his hands. “Ugh,” he glanced up then. “And I suppose _you_ just _so happen_ to be the one they chose?”

The old man’s smile widened.

“You horny old pervert,” Crowley muttered. “Fine.” The ‘fine’ was spat out like a curse.

Aziraphale felt every inch of that resentment like a physical slap. He couldn’t help automatically cringing back when the demon grabbed for his arm. But the demon surprised him. Crowley froze and his grip on Aziraphale’s arm loosened. He stared at him for a second. “Well . . . you can just come along, then,” he huffed, awkwardly, dropping his arm.

“R-right . . .” This was, after all, what he had agreed to do.

“You have a house nearby, yes?” Methuselah started.

“No,” Crowley snapped, running a hand through his hair, leaving it all sticky-up. “We’re not going there. I need . . . I need . . . I have private rooms at the Academy. We’ll go there.”

“Very well. I shall inform the Council.”

It didn’t seem like Aziraphale got a vote in this. His heart pounded in his chest, as Crowley stalked back down the aisle, ignoring the shouting demons, and he had no choice but to follow. 

~ + ~

Crowley ushered him through a set of doors, into a suite of what he guessed were the demon’s private rooms. “Bedroom’s through there,” he grunted, before turning and leaving again, pulling the door shut behind him.

Aziraphale blinked, confused, but grateful for the moment alone to collect himself. The rooms he found himself in were impressive – stately, even – all the surfaces were polished dark woods, the windows were stained glass, the furniture heavy and imposing, from the wide oak desk in the office, to the king size four-poster bed, heaped with down comforters, silk sheets and mounds of pillows. Under other circumstances, it would have looked inviting. But all Aziraphale could do was stare at the bed rather dumbly, and fidget.

He touched his suit jacket, his waistcoat. Was he supposed to undress? Or wait? Or - or what? He felt his face heating up already, and he was currently the only one in the room! It felt like whatever decision he made would be the wrong one. In the end, he just kept adjusting his cuffs and smoothing his waistcoat, which were the most utterly pointless things he could be doing.

He’d had sex before. Not with a demon, obviously.

But Gabriel – he’d been put in Gabriel’s service, seventy-five years ago, and Gabriel had certain urges – and it had been an honor to serve an archangel, of course – but he hadn’t always been gentle.

_In fact,_ said a tiny little voice deep inside Aziraphale’s head, _sometimes . . ._ if he were being honest . . . _it was really quite horrible._

But then it was over. And this would be like that, surely? Even if it was unpleasant, he just had to get through it. He had agreed to this, and Heaven had agreed to this and – and – _he’s probably planning to torture you for all eternity, anyways_.

Alright, now his heart was racing. Um, more so. And his palms were soaked with perspiration. He tried to dab some off his forehead with a handkerchief, and told his mind to kindly shut up and maybe conjure something pleasant to think about while – while –

Aziraphale swallowed. Then his eyes fell upon a low dresser, standing against the far wall. A looking glass hung above it, but resting there, on top of the dresser, was a crystal decanter very nearly full of wine.

His throat felt immediately parched. Aziraphale hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in seventy-five years and he wished fervently, more than anything, that he could be drunk right now. So, while he had no idea what was going to happen (well, _some_ idea) and no idea if Crowley would be furious with him for taking this, or if he should be busy getting undressed instead, he lifted the stopper out with shaking hands and poured himself a very generous glass. Which he downed too quickly on purpose, barely tasting it.

And he poured himself another.

_Wine!_ Oh, he could weep.

The second glass he drank a little more slowly, enjoying the sensation of the taste on his tongue. Gabriel had been very strict about polluting their corporeal forms with any sort of human food, and this felt so . . . good. In the midst of a lot of not-very-good things. And really, couldn’t Aziraphale have just _one_ thing that felt nice?

He finished the second glass and was just starting on his third, when the doors to the suites banged open. He jumped, though thankfully didn’t spill any wine. He was glad they couldn’t see him from where he was in the bedroom.

He heard the footsteps coming, though, and soon Crowley, Methuselah and another demon entered the room. Crowley barely glanced in his direction. “You can bring chairs in from the study, or whatever.” 

“Surely, you don’t expect an old man to . . .”

“Bite me, Methuselah.”

The demons sorted themselves out, and did, in fact, drag in high backed chairs and arrange them along the wall, facing the bed. All the while, Crowley paced, prowling around the narrow space between the bed and the wall, running his hands through his long, red hair.

When his eyes fell on Aziraphale again he finally noticed the wine glass sitting on the dresser and the now nearly empty decanter. He did a bit of a double take. His mouth dropped open, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he was going to yell at him . . . but he ended up shrugging. “Well . . . you might as well finish that, then,” he said, tipping the remaining liquid into the glass.

Aziraphale blushed, but raised the glass to his lips with a slightly shaking hand.

The demons shifted restlessly. He recognized Beelzebub by reputation, and they looked incredibly bored, slouched in their seat, legs stretched out in front of them. But the ancient man was licking his lips, and eyed Aziraphale in way that made his skin crawl.

Crowley took the empty glass from him, setting it down softly before turning back to him. Then they both stared at each other for a moment.

“Take his clothes off!” Methuselah croaked.

Aziraphale blushed. Crowley, he thought – though he couldn’t be sure – was rolling his eyes. He still had not taken the dark glasses off. “Yeah, thanks. I do know how this works.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“. . . sodding pervert,” Crowley muttered, shaking his head. He turned back to Aziraphale, “alright, let’s get this over with.”

He removed Aziraphale’s bowtie swiftly, with deft fingers, and when Aziraphale, who was feeling very clumsy, got caught in his own jacket, he helped him out of it without comment. In fact, Crowley turned very silent, which Aziraphale was thankful for. He’d been expecting to be yelled at, or at least mocked, or “jokes” or comment about his weight – his softness, his belly, his thighs, all part of him which Gabriel had criticized, loudly.

But Crowley didn’t say anything, he merely helped him undress with silent efficiency, and guided him over to the bed. Aziraphale’s legs felt weak as he climbed on top of the mattress. It was soft and deep and he could almost pretend that he wasn’t being put on display for a lecherous demon audience, except for Methuselah’s wet, raspy breathing and Beelzebub shifting and dragging their chair. He shivered. Crowley’s hand was on his back then, trailing down . . .

He smothered a gasp in the pillows as he felt, inside him, that Crowley had prepared him with a demonic miracle. He heard him unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans. Apparently, Crowley wasn’t going to get naked for their audience. Which, for some mad reason, made him almost want to laugh. He ended up digging his fingers into the plush comforter, wrinkled beneath him, holding his breath as he felt Crowley’s weight shift on the mattress above him.

The demon leaned over him, though Aziraphale was face down and anyways not interested in looking at anything. He felt him lean down, closer to his face. “I’m sorry about this,” he whispered.

Aziraphale was too stunned to reply for a second. Crowley was only doing what he, Aziraphale, had agreed to, after all. He moved his face a little, so that he could see the demon, who was still bending close to him. Still wearing those sunglasses, but there was a tightness to his face. Aziraphale found himself forcing a weak smile.

Crowley retreated slightly then, and Aziraphale felt his hands grip his hips, as he slid into place. He caught his breath and tried not to groan at the sudden pressure of feeling Crowley, already hard, breaching him. Even with the demonic miracle, he was tense and tight and it hurt. He concentrated on his breathing and keeping his eyes shut and not thinking about Methuselah and Beelzebub watching. He tried to think, instead, of the softness of the quilts beneath him, the pillows, how deep and nice the mattress was. It had been hundreds of years since he’d lain on anything so nice.

Crowley’s hard length pushed inside of him. He couldn’t help gasping and tears stung his eyes, though he held them back. Crowley began moving quickly, still gripping Aziraphale’s hips, holding him in place and dragging him back slightly to meet his thrusts. Aziraphale gulped and kept his face pressed into the pillows. Crowley grunted at the effort, breaths becoming ragged, and kept up the pace. Soon, Aziraphale was trembling with every thrust, face buried deep in the pillows.

Across the room, Methuselah murmured to himself and shifted in his seat.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long it took. It seemed to take a very long time. He was speared open, and dragged back into that thrusting heat and struggled to breathe.

Finally, Crowley finished, spilling inside him, hot and thick.

Then that hand on his back again, just briefly, as Crowley eased out of him. “Alright, get out,” he said suddenly. His voice was like ice. Aziraphale trembled, wondering if he was supposed to go out in the hall, like this . . . but no, that hand on his back again, stroking now, holding him in place, and he finally understood the demon was speaking to their audience.

He heard the chairs being pushed back and Beelzebub grumbling. Methuselah tutted. “Over too fast for my tastes.”

“Seriously, and I cannot stress this enough, _fuck off_ before I fucking end you,” Crowley snarled.

He felt it in the air when they vanished away.

Crowley pulled a blanket over him. “Did I . . . hurt you?”

Aziraphale glanced at him. The demon was looking away from him, staring at the wall. His face was unreadable.

But . . . that was something Gabriel had never asked.

“Oh. I’ll . . . I’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

Crowley’s lips pressed together and for a moment he looked like he was going to object, but then he sighed. “Bathroom’s through there,” he indicated with a nod of his head. “You can . . . whatever you like. Take care of yourself.”

“Oh . . .” he sat up. Crowley had vanished.

He suddenly realized it was over. The marriage was consummated. It was a done deal. He was married to a demon.


	4. Anathema Makes a Friend

Sister Anathema Device wore a lot of hats in the Church of Night – official augur and seeress, part-time librarian at the Academy, sometimes Crowley’s secretary and also Faustus’ assistant – so she was among the party that followed the newlyweds back from the desecrated church. The tall stone walls of the hidden school appeared out of the mist and the building opened its doors for them, groaning under the weight of invisible sigils and glyphs which had been hurriedly re-cast to allow for an angel.

It had been arranged with the teachers in advance, so the boarding students were, conveniently, nowhere near the great hall, and the wedding party past only a handful of staff – all watching with the same curious, shocked eyes. Like everyone else, Anathema had been beside herself with worry when she’d first heard the announcement, barely twenty-four hours earlier.

The headmaster was to marry an _angel_? A real-life, literal _angel_? It was impossible!

She’d always liked Crowley. For a demon he was surprisingly – well, normal. He cared about the students, but was pretty relaxed and hands-off with the day-to-day running of the institute. She was worried that this angel, whoever they were, would hurt him.

But her opinions had quickly started shifting inside the church. First of all, the sight of the angel’s wings – shining with such gentle light in the gloom of their surroundings – had been quite beautiful. Secondly, when she’d gotten up close, Aziraphale had seemed nervous, shy, even frightened. Not like she had imagined at all. 

When the group reached the headmaster’s chambers, she watched Crowley shove the confused looking angel inside before quickly slamming the heavy wooden doors. He held them shut firmly for a moment, shoulders tense, as though he half-expected someone to try barrelling through him.

Finally, he straightened and turned, facing Anathema, the Dark Council, and other curious members of their congregation. Of course, she couldn’t see his eyes – he was wearing his usual dark glasses – but she could tell from the set of his lips that he was _not_ happy.

“Alright, what are you all still doing here? Don’t you have lives to get back to? Well? Get on with it! We’re not putting on bloody _Hamlet_ here.”

“I think people are just . . . curious,” she said.

Crowley snorted.

“Not about . . . well, I hope not about _that_ ,” she clarified. “But what do we do . . .”

“Is the angel going to – to _stay_ here? This is a _school_ for Satan’s sake!” that scandalized tone could only be Sister Shirley Jackson. Anathema rolled her eyes. Soon she’d be wailing _‘think of the children!’_

Shirley clearly struck a nerve, though, as the corridor soon filled with anxious murmurs. Bodies shifted, robes rustled and witches and warlocks whispered to one another. Anathema caught snatches of it. Words like “—dangerous” “reckless” and “perverted” were thrown around a lot.

“Is he really going to . . .?”

“Did the Dark Lord _truly_ sanctify this?”

“Wait, didn’t he marry a _mortal_ once? So he _is_ a pervert!”

Crowley himself fell silent, leaning against the closed doors, resting against the doorjamb. His head fell back against the wood with a dull thunk, his brow creased.

“ _Alright!_ ” Anathema took a deep breath, before raising herself to her fullest height. “Everyone QUIET!” she bellowed. “This is an important union. Important for the war. Important for the Dark Lord. Now, the chosen delegation from the Dark Council will step forwards, please, and everyone else will kindly disperse. The angel is Headmaster Crowley’s responsibility – and he is a prince of Hell, so I think he can handle it – no one else is to approach the celestial being under any circumstances.”

She paused. The crowd, surprisingly, had quieted and was watching her like she was actually in charge. Even Crowley had straightened slightly and tilted his head in her direction. 

“ _Well?_ Is that clear enough for everybody?” She stamped her foot for emphasis, placing her hands firmly on her hips and _glared_.

With minor grumblings, the witches began to disperse. Those who lived at the academy drifted back to their rooms, or the common areas, while some vanished altogether.

Soon it was just herself, Crowley, and Methuselah and Beelzebub from the Dark Council left standing in the corridor outside his rooms.

“Well done,” said Crowley, smirking at her. “But you know, everything you’ve just said applies to _you_ as well.”

“Relax, I wasn’t planning on staying for the show,” she assured him. Then, under her breath, angling them away from the demons, she said. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay, though.”

Crowley’s face softened in surprise for a split-second, before the familiar smirk slid back into place. “You’re a gem, Anathema. However much we're paying you, it’s not enough.”

“Oh, I know.”

“But seriously, keep yourself away. Don’t bother the angel, they’re . . .”

“Flaming swords and drowning worlds, I know.”

“Good girl.”

But even as she said the words, Anathema felt only more doubt. The angel didn’t seem like the creature from the stories she’d been brought up on, and she had already decided she was going to meet him properly.

Just, probably not tonight.

~ * ~

Aziraphale was sore, but grateful the demon hadn’t been violent. He sat up for a moment, the covers gathered around him. Crowley had vanished, the doors were shut, and as far as he could tell the building was silent. He suddenly felt more tired than he had in six thousand years, and wanted to curl up under the down comforter and go directly to sleep. Such a human thing. Gabriel would have been furious.

However, Aziraphale also felt sticky, with the slickness of Crowley still inside him. He wanted a bath, and since that seemed to be alright . . . gingerly, he made his way out of bed and shuffled over to the door Crowley had indicated. Aziraphale had assumed it was a cupboard or closet, so he wasn’t sure what to expect – but was pleasantly surprised to find that it opened into a generous space, beautifully tiled and decorated with candles and decorative lamps. The tub was a large, antique claw foot affair and Aziraphale instantly loved it. There were bottles of soaps and oils which appeared to have never been touched, arranged in a dear little basket, and thick fluffy white towels on a black and gold rack.

It seemed he was to be left alone for a while, anyways, and he felt himself begin to relax as hot water burbled into the tub.

He remained in the bath until the water turned cold, and then cautiously made his way back into the bedroom. It appeared he was still alone. The demon, Crowley, had not reappeared.

Aziraphale conjured the same suit of clothes he had warn the last time he was stationed on Earth – a suit in soft cream and beige shades, with a crisp white shirt, brown waistcoat and tartan bow tie.

Then he decided to poke around the connected rooms in the suite – the office, with its expensive looking desk and the high-backed chair behind it, looking more like a throne. Behind the desk a line of windows were obscured by thick red curtains, and the space was lit by lamps. There was a grate for a fireplace, and a black bookshelf set in the corner. It held, of course, all treatises on Satanism, occult practices and the dark arts, which made Aziraphale shiver, remembering where he was – and why he was here.

 _“You will obey the demon completely,”_ Gabriel had told him, _“to show that our side has good intentions.”_

_Once word of the archangel’s plan circulated throughout the Silver City, the other angels – who had ignored Aziraphale since he was recalled from Earth – were suddenly all eager to approach, telling him about everything they thought the demon would do to him, often in horrific detail._

_“He’ll probably want to cut off your wings,” was Sandalphon’s contribution._

_Aziraphale had been unable to hide his shudder at the time. He had wanted to excuse himself, but that would have been unforgivably rude to an angel who ranked so far above him._

_“Oh yes,” Sandalphon had gone on. “Probably do that right off. Won’t want you using miracles to heal up after the things he’s going to do to you. Wouldn’t let him anywhere near my wings . . . but then, of course, you’ll be sworn to obey him, won’t you? Poor duck . . .” he tsked, shaking his head, as Aziraphale’s blood went cold._

But here, now, Aziraphale didn’t know what to expect. If Crowley was planning on torturing him, he wasn’t making it a priority. Of course, he had no idea what the demon would do when he came back.

Still, whatever the demon wanted, he was supposed to comply. _Maybe_ it wouldn’t be so different from serving Gabriel. And at least it meant Earth would be spared from the horrors of Armageddon. He had hurt the humans enough through his negligence, going back to the Garden, so this was a fitting punishment. Right?

Aziraphale past the night restlessly, plagued by these thoughts. He wasn’t quite brave enough to explore beyond Crowley’s rooms, and he couldn’t relax enough to sleep.

Once the morning came, a sharp knock at the door startled him. He stared at it for a moment, hesitating. Was he . . . was he _supposed_ to answer the door? Was he allowed to answer the door? Or, maybe it was Crowley on the other side, impatient to be let in. Swallowing, Aziraphale crossed the room and opened the door a crack.

He was surprised to see a young witch standing there. He recognized her as the woman who had assisted in the wedding ceremony. “Oh, hello,” he said.

“Hi,” she smiled. She was holding a wooden tray with tea. “My name is Anathema Device. Can I come in?”

“Um . . . o-of course,” said Aziraphale, backing away slightly.

She smiled at him and came into the office, placing the tray down on Crowley’s desk. “I thought you might like some tea? Unless celestial beings don’t drink tea. You don’t have to, I just thought – something to warm you up, might be nice.”

“No. I mean, yes, that’s - that’s very kind of you, Anathema. I would love a cup of tea.”

Her smile brightened, her brown eyes sparkling and warm. She seemed so friendly, he thought, not how he’d picture a Satanist at all.

“Um, I’m Aziraphale.”

“Yes, I remember,” she said cheerily, pouring their tea.

They sat on the chairs for guests in the office, across from the desk, and Aziraphale appreciated the warmth of the cup in his hands and the reassuring smell of the tea. He hadn’t tasted it in a long time, but he found it as comforting and soothing as ever. It reminded him that, no matter what happened in the future, at least he was back on Earth.

“I just wanted to welcome you to the Academy, and our community, the Church of Night. I suppose you’re one of us now, right?”

“Umm . . .” Aziraphale fidgeted, turning the tea cup in his hands. _Was he?_ He wasn’t sure.

“And I wanted to make sure that you were doing okay,” she continued. “Um, maybe I could show you around today?”

“Oh. I mean, if – if you think that’s alright . . .”

“You’re going to be living here, after all. You can’t just stay in the headmaster’s rooms the whole time. I’ll introduce you to people. It’ll be fine! I’m sure they’re all dying to meet you.”

She sounded so bright and upbeat that Aziraphale felt momentarily hopeful. He wasn’t sure how he would really get along in a school for witches, but he hoped at least Anathema might be his friend.

~ * ~

Aziraphale seemed just as sweet as she had thought. The fact that he drank the tea also endeared him to her. She had been wondering if he might just slam the door in her face, or refuse to let her in. Maybe he would think he was too “good” to hang out with a witch. But that didn’t appear to be the case with him, at all.

He still appeared a bit shy, and he sounded so awfully _surprised_ when he said, “that’s _kind_ of you.” In fact, Anathema found herself feeling a bit protective of the angel. Had he been expecting them to be cruel?

She hoped that her fellow witches and warlocks in the Church of Night would give him a chance. As long as he didn’t start singing the praises of the “false god” she didn’t see why they couldn’t at least tolerate him.

“Well, let me show you the place!” she declared briskly, once they had finished their tea.

Aziraphale looked nervous, but nodded, standing to follow her. “Well . . . lead the way, Miss Anathema,” he said politely. But she could tell he wasn’t sure what to expect, and he kept fixing his cuffs.

She decided to take him to the great hall, first. Then realized that, with its gigantic stone statue of the Dark Lord in his half-man, half-goat form seated on a throne, that may not have been the best idea. Aziraphale didn’t say anything, though he did look quite a bit paler at the sight of it.

He bumped into her elbow and apologized profusely, eyes darting back to the statue.

“Um, let’s go through here,” she suggested a passageway at random and began pointing out where some of the classrooms and lecture halls were located. She showed him how the rooms were laid out in a series of interlocking pentagrams, and the angel seemed to relax slightly when they were out of sight of the statue.

It was early enough in the morning that they didn’t run into too many other people. The boarding students were just waking up, heading to the cafeteria for breakfast, and the day students had yet to arrive.

“Father Blackwood also has an office at the school,” she explained. “Though he’s the head of the Church of Night, and Crowley is the head of the school, so they bicker a lot. Faustus Blackwood is the type who thinks he should have a hand in controlling everything. You should maybe watch out for him. He’s the type to . . .”

“Sister Anathema Device, what in Heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Ah, _speak of the Devil,_ so to say. She plastered a fake smile on her face while turning around to face the high priest. Faustus Blackwood stood outside one of the classrooms, with Shirley and another teacher clustered around him. _Sucky bitches,_ she thought. Aloud she said, “Good morning, Father Blackwood. How are you today?”

“What is _it_ doing here?”

Aziraphale stiffened beside her, and Anathema found herself stepping between them. “Um, he’s married to the headmaster. You performed the ceremony yourself, remember?”

Blackwood pushed the teachers out of his way in order to stalk towards her, his long dark robes billowing. He always did have a flare for the dramatic, she thought.

He glowered down at her, lip curling. “Don’t get cute with me, young lady. What is an _angel_ doing roaming the halls of our institution freely? This is a school. And this . . . creature . . . needs to stay contained.” Behind him, the teachers hurried back into the classrooms, slamming the doors shut. 

Aziraphale looked hurt, and so normal, Anathema couldn’t quite think of him as some mythological being. And sure, the rule was: _you walk the Path of Light, OR the Path of Night, not both._ But he seemed just like a fellow member of the Church, or perhaps, a well-meaning mortal who had somehow bumbled in from the outside world. And anyways, they were stuck with him, weren’t they? What good would come from excluding him?

“Don’t be ridiculous. He can’t just stay locked up in Crowley’s rooms the whole time!”

“Listen to me, girl,” Blackwood snarled, “I can make life at the Academy very difficult for you, I—”

“—am not the Headmaster, did you forget?”

He looked so furious, Anathema was worried for a moment that he might actually hit her, there in the middle of the school, in broad daylight. But he took a breath, hands clenched into fists. “It was a gross error of judgement on Crowley’s part to bring this – this _thing_ \- into the academy, and I will make certain that everyone in our community knows it. You are playing with forces you do not understand. In the meantime, I strongly suggest he keep his _whore_ in his bed, or perhaps the dungeons would be more suitable. And you may tell him I said that.”

He loomed over Anathema, and as much as she disliked him, she knew that Father Blackwood could make her life a lot harder, if he chose to. She was still young and she wanted to rise in the church someday. She backed down first, “come on, Aziraphale,” she said quietly, “I’ll take you back to Crowley’s suite.”

The angel looked shaken up by the confrontation and did not object.

“I’m sorry about Father Blackwood . . .” she told him, when they were well out of earshot of the high priest, and heading back to the headmaster’s private rooms. Rooms she knew Faustus coveted for himself.

She sighed, when they reached the doors. “Look, maybe you _should_ stay in here for now – until they have a chance to get used to you.”

“It’s alright, I understand,” said Aziraphale, though he looked sad. “I’ll just . . . I’ll stay here, then.”

She forced a shaky smile at him. Honestly, Father Blackwood had upset her, as well. She resolved to speak to Crowley about it, but for the moment, that was all she could do. “I’ll come back and visit you,” she offered.

Aziraphale smiled for a second, but then his expression crumpled. “Oh, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll bring you tea, okay?”

It wasn’t much, but Aziraphale looked so grateful towards her, that her heart melted a little. _He isn’t bad,_ she thought. _He isn’t so bad at all._


	5. Crowley Messes Up

Crowley had just left his rooms at the Academy, with the angel still in his bed, still soiled by his hands. He felt dizzy and so achingly tired. When the familiar walls of the Spellman family home materialized around him, he almost wept, his legs shaking with exhaustion. The room was lit by the soft orange glow of lamps, and a fire was already stoked in the hearth, crackling away.

He was a demon, but he wasn’t particularly violent. Hell had kicked him out way back at the beginning because he’d proven to be so rubbish at torture. He’d never raped anyone. And no matter what technicalities you brought up, that was what he’d just done.

Leading up to the ceremony, Crowley had convinced himself that the angel was going to be one of those proud, cold warriors with eyes full of contempt for all lesser creatures. Instead, what he’d seen was a man who was so _obviously_ frightened and who so _obviously_ had been forced to be there. And that made sense, didn’t it? What sort of angel would willingly lay with a demon?

And now, when Crowley closed his eyes, he could still see Aziraphale’s frightened blue eyes, his soft white-blonde curls of hair making him look more like a cherub than a principality. He had been soft and warm, and even though Crowley had hated it, hated doing it, had to concentrate on memories of old lovers to accomplish the deed, he couldn’t deny that part of it had still felt incredible. The sensation of being buried in the angel’s tight heat, how much he’d wanted to sink into that wonderfully soft skin and disappear completely.

But he had tried to touch the angel as little as possible, to get it done as quickly as he could. For the angel’s sake. Nobody deserved what he had done to him.

The room blurred and swayed, Victorian wallpaper running together with the light from the lamps and the fireplace casting long shadows that all seemed to dance and leap across his brain. He stumbled in the rough direction of their burgundy wingback chairs, when he heard a surprised cry and froze in the middle of the floor, swaying and trembling.

Footsteps ran towards him. A second later, Hilda grabbed him by the arm. “Crowley! Oh, Crowley there you are, love. Are you alright?” she embraced him in her arms and he finally felt himself relax, sinking into his sister’s hug.

Zelda walked to his side more sedately, but the concern in her voice was just as jarring. “What is this? What’s happened?” He felt her hand on his back, resting at the top of his spine. And oh, he could just break. He wanted to. He _wanted_ to cry. He _wanted_ to sob. He _wanted_ to confess. He could just hear himself saying, over and over again, in his head: _“I’ve done a bad thing. A terrible thing. An unforgivable thing.”_

But Crowley couldn’t put the weight of that on his sisters. It wasn’t fair. He was their older brother, their guardian demon. He was meant to be protecting them. So he pulled it back – the rage and the sadness and the horror – he pulled all of it back, grounded by their embrace, drawing strength from finally being home again.

“I – I have to tell you something,” he said. He hugged them both tightly. “The war is . . . suspended. I’m not sure if it’s over for good, but there’s a sort of truce going now, between our side and theirs. As a sort of experiment, I think.”

Hilda led him over to their old couch by the fire. She sat next to him, while Zelda stood over them, studying them both with sharp eyes. “What in Satan’s name are you on about now?”

“I had to – it was the Dark Lord’s will that I remarry.”

Hilda looked confused.

Zelda said, “well, finally.” She crossed the room, poured them each a shot of brandy and came back with three glasses. Crowley took his gratefully. 

“But what does that have to do with the war?” Hilda asked.

“That’s the thing, sisters . . .” he downed the brandy quickly. “I had to marry an . . . an angel.”

Zelda dropped her glass. It exploded against the floor.

Hilda’s jaw dropped. Her hand, which had been stroking his arm, froze.

“It’s a . . . what do you call it? Political marriage? Marriage of convenience? It’s part of the arrangement.”

“An _angel_?!” Zelda repeated, voice rising shrilly. “An _ANGEL_?! Of all things – first, first you marry that _human woman_ and have the audacity to make the Dark Lord okay with it, and now – now – _NOW_ \-- !”

“C-calm down, Zelda. It wasn’t his fault. Aren’t you listening?” Hilda glanced back and forth between the two of them, looking terrified.

“It was the Dark Lord’s idea – or, well, he agreed to it, anyway,” said Crowley. He plucked Hilda’s brandy from her hand and drank that, too. “In any case it wasn’t _my_ idea!”

Zelda scowled. “Oh, well, this is just _great_ for the Spellman family name. We’re going to be the laughingstocks of the community. Outcasts. Pariahs. An _angel_ ,” she said the word with no small amount of disgust. “And – and where is this angel now? When is the wedding?”

“It’s over. It’s done,” he told them, shoulder’s slumping. He buried his face in his hands, long hair falling forwards. 

“Oh. Oh, Crowley, oh dear,” Hilda murmured, apparently recovering from her shock. She stroked his back.

Zelda growled, spinning on her heel. She poured herself a fresh drink and downed it immediately. Then two more. Finally, with a shaky breath, she returned to them. “ _And_? The angel?”

“Not here. I won’t bring him anywhere near you two, or Sabrina. He’s at the school.”

“The Academy?” Zelda asked. “Crowley, how could you?”

“What?” he leapt to his feet, tugging a hand through his hair, pacing. “It was _there_ or _here_! And I’m not bringing him _here._ The Academy’s safe . . .”

“But for the _children_?” Zelda demanded. “Please tell me you bound him and locked him in the crypt. At the very _least_.” At the look on his face, she threw up her hands in disgust. “ _Crowley!_ Brother, you will be the death of me!”

At that moment, the front doors banged open. They all listened to Sabrina stomp inside the house, throwing her bag down in the foyer. Crowley looked at the sisters helplessly. “Don’t tell Sabrina,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “ _Please_.”

Zelda wrinkled her nose in disgust. Hilda bit her lip. But there wasn’t time to discuss it, because Sabrina was already marching into the drawing room, angrily declaring: “Aunties, I’ve thought about it, and I want to post-pone my Dark Baptism-” she broke off with a startled cry. “DAD!”

“ _Sssabrina_ ,” he hoped he didn’t look as worn out and thin and broken as he felt. Not for her. He caught her up in a tight hug and she hugged him back just as tightly. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, her shining blonde hair.

“You’re home! You’re finally home!” she squeezed him so hard they rocked back and forth for a second.

“I’m finally home,” he agreed, not quite willing to relinquish their hug just yet.

“I thought – I was worried – the Weird Sisters said –”

“It’s fine. It’sssss all fine,” he told her.

“It most certainly is not!” said Zelda. “What’s this nonsense about wanting to post-pone your Dark Baptism? You can’t post-pone your sixteenth birthday, especially not when it occurs on a Blood Moon!” 

Sabrina finally pulled out of Crowley’s embrace, looking at him and her aunts with wide eyes. She blushed. “W-well, I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .” 

“Ssh. It’s fine. It’s _fine_ ,” he repeated, pulling her back in for another quick hug, glaring over her head at Zelda, who shot him back an equally sour expression. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.” He was so tired. He was just so tired. “Go up to bed now. It’s late,” honestly, he had no idea what time it was, but it _felt_ late.

“But . . . but we _can_ talk about it?” she asked. “You promise?”

He nodded.

“And I mean an _honest_ conversation, where you give me real answers and don’t just brush things off or say ‘because that’s how it’s always been done,’ or ‘tradition,’ or something equally unsatisfying?” she pressed.

Crowley couldn’t help smiling at his daughter’s strong will. “I _promise_ ,” he assured her. “We will have a _real_ conversation and I will answer _any_ questions you have . . . _tomorrow_.”

“Okay,” she smiled, relieved. “I love you, Dad.” She kissed his cheek. 

He felt a wave of relief wash over him. Sabrina was okay. They were going to be okay.

“Love you, too.”

After Sabrina had gone upstairs, he sank slowly back onto the couch. “Soooo, she’s been having doubts?” He tried to rub the crick out of the back of his neck. He wasn’t entirely surprised, and even a bit proud. He’d hate to think he’d raised a daughter who _wouldn’t_ ask questions.

“You need to talk to her,” said Zelda sharply. She was going to be pissed at him for a while, he realized.

He hummed in agreement, head dropping onto the back of the couch. His eyes slid shut. _Speak to Sabrina_ , yes, of course he would. Make everything right. In the morning.

~ * ~

A few hours later, the sun was up and the Spellmans were all clustered around the kitchen table. Zelda had her espresso and cigarette, and was reading the paper, resolutely ignoring them. He wondered how long that would last. He doubted she’d make it through breakfast without sniping.

Hilda meanwhile was humming cheerily, making pancakes over the stove. Sabrina was still in her rumpled pink pajamas, sipping coffee that was half milk. 

Crowley tried not to think too much about how very much he _loved_ all of this. Just being here, with them. In their kitchen. With their chipped, mint green cupboards and his plants, lush and overflowing in their pots by the windows. The smell of Hilda cooking. Sabrina’s new familiar, a black cat named Salem, lapping at milk from a china bowl. Even Zelda’s frosty rage. As long as they were all healthy and safe, he’d take it.

“Just . . . I want to make an educated choice-” Sabrina was saying.

“ _Choice?”_ Zelda barked out a harsh laugh, flipping the newspaper down for a fraction of a second to glare at everyone around the table. And yeah, so much for not speaking to them. He smirked.

“It is our _sacred duty_ and honor to serve the Dark Lord. The extraordinary, delicious gifts He bestows upon us in return for signing His book . . . and you would deny Him that? Tell her, Crowley!”

He slouched in his seat, shrugging slightly.

“It’s _my_ name, Aunt Zelda.”

“It’s _her_ name, Aunt Zelda,” he repeated.

“You’re a demon for Satan’s sake! You should be on my side!”

Hilda slid a plate loaded with thick blueberry pancakes in front of Sabrina, before taking the seat next to her. She held one of Sabrina’s hands gently in her own. “Sabrina, do you not _want_ to join the Church of Night?” Hilda’s gentle concern seemed much more effective than Zelda’s sniping, and Crowley watched the guilt flicker across his teenage daughter’s face. It made something twist in his gut. Why did they have to put her throught this? Maybe they could just run away somewhere, all of them.

“Well, no, no, I _think_ I do . . . but . . .” she glanced at him.

He had promised a conversation, but what was he supposed to say, really? He couldn’t make her choice for her, that was the whole point. Free will was _the whole point._

“I just don’t know why I have to give up everything in my life that’s human to do it! Dad, you’re always encouraging me to go out and explore mortal things – music, food, cars, clothes -”

“They do have the best stuff,” Crowley said.

Zelda huffed. “You’re not helping.”

“You were the one who told me to go to Baxter High in the first place-”

It was true; he had wanted to keep her safe from these things for as long as he could. Let her be normal. Let her be human.

“It was acceptable when you were a child,” said Zelda, “but the time for childish things is over. You’re a young woman now.”

Crowley pulled a face. “She’s only fifteen!”

“ _Sixteen_.”

“Come on, there has to be a way I can do both. Dad, you’re a demon and you married a human, didn’t you?”

Before he could answer, Zelda said: “Your father served our Master faithfully for _millennia_ to earn that right! Get back to me in six thousand years!”

“Alright, enough,” he told her. “Sabrina, get dressed and come for a drive with me.”

~ * ~

The vintage Bentley tore down the long, winding country roads. Thankfully there wasn’t much traffic out there, especially not so early in the morning. Crowley drove _fast_ and Sabrina loved it.

Over _Queen’s Greatest Hits_ blasting from the stereo, he hollered, “so what are these doubts you’ve been having, exactly?”

“Oh, you know . . . just worried that if I sign the Book of the Beast, Satan will have eternal dominion over my soul.”

“Ah . . .” he grinned at her. That wonky grin he seemed to save just for her. “ _Just_ that then?”

She couldn’t help smiling back.

“Look, it’s just a symbolic gesture, really. I don’t even think He notices these things. And they’re so far behind on the paperwork down there, prolly won’t even get a look at your file for another century.”

“I don’t want him to . . . to call on me to do his dark bidding, or whatever.”

With a sharp yank of the wheel, Crowley sent them spinning onto a side street. A long, narrow dirt road stretched before them. The Bentley soared over it, wheels barely touching the ground. “I won’t let that happen.” Though he was clutching the wheel more tightly, knuckles turning white. Queen was so loud the speakers started crackling.

“This isn’t the way to school!” she yelled over the music.

“You can miss first period,” he shouted back. “I want to show you something.”

They past a sign for the Greendale Apple Orchards. She looked back at her father. Six thousand years and it always came back to apples with him.

THE ACADEMY OF UNSEEN ARTS

Aziraphale sat in Crowley’s rooms at the Academy. Though he had the bedroom, the en suite, office and a small sitting room, there really wasn’t much to occupy his time. The demon did not return. He wished he had some books to read. Or that the nice witch, Anathema, would return again. Of course, he chided himself, it was the height of stupidity to worry about being lonely at a time like this. He should be relishing the fact that he was being ignored, after what Sandalphon and the others had told him could be happening to him right now. Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth!

Still. He couldn’t help being a little disappointed. He was back on Earth, but being stuck in these four rooms meant he couldn’t very well enjoy it. Maybe if Anathema came back, she could be persuaded to bring him some books? Or some food . . . of course, being an angel, he wouldn’t starve, but it would be nice to eat something again. The tea she had brought had been so satisfying . . .

A knock at the door startled Aziraphale out of his thoughts. Hoping it was Anathema again, he hurriedly opened it and was surprised to find a small child standing there. The boy was maybe ten or eleven years old, pale skin and brown hair in a bowl cut. His eyes widened at the sight of Aziraphale. “I - I’m looking for the headmaster,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Well, I’m very sorry, but he isn’t here right now,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh . . .” tiny shoulders slumped.

The poor boy looked so disappointed, Aziraphale really couldn’t help but wring his hands and say: “but perhaps there is something _I_ could do to help?”

The boy looked hesitant at first, but he clearly wanted to speak to somebody. “It’s just . . . I’m being picked on by the other boys, sir. And Father Blackwood told me if I didn’t like it, I should just go home. But the headmaster says we’re always free to come and talk with him about anything . . . but . . .”

“You poor dear boy! Why don’t you come in and we could have a nice cup of tea? I’m not the headmaster, but I’m his . . . err, friend, Aziraphale.”

The boy nodded, sniffling and rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. “Alright,” he nodded. “My name’s Quentin.”

“Pleased to meet you, Quentin,” Aziraphale beamed. He led the boy over to Crowley’s desk, where there was still some tea waiting warm in the pot. He poured them each a nice cup, wishing he had some biscuits to offer the lad. He supposed he could miracle some up, but they never tasted as good if he had to do it himself.

“Now then,” he said, when they were sitting comfortably, “why don’t you tell me what seems to be the trouble?”

Quentin told him how a group of older children liked to haze the younger students, locking them in a dungeon cell somewhere beneath the school, where supposedly witches had been tortured hundreds of years ago. Aziraphale wondered why a school would even have a torture dungeon, but in any case, the poor child was clearly terrified.

“Master Crowley put a stop to it. But he’s been gone for _months_ now, and they’ve started up again. Worse than before even. The teachers know, but they don’t do anything.”

“I – I’m so sorry,” he said. Aziraphale’s stomach was tied in knots listening to the boy’s tale. He wished there was something he could do to help, but he didn’t see that he could do much, being _persona non grata_ at the academy. Father Blackwood and the others seemed ready to relegate him to the headmaster’s dirty little secret, and perhaps that’s all he was.

“There – there isn’t much I can do, I’m afraid –” He would tell Anathema about the children’s plight, if she kept her promise and returned. 

“That’s alright,” said Quentin, “I understand.” The child’s dark eyes looked at Aziraphale with a sobriety that was far too great for his young age. It broke Aziraphale’s heart all over again.

“Oh! I know,” said the angel suddenly, nearly knocking over his tea. “How about a magic trick?” It wouldn’t help with the bully problem, but it might at least take the boy’s mind off things.

“Magic trick?” Quentin repeated, looking puzzled.

Of course, this was a school for _witches and warlocks_ , who performed _real_ magic, Aziraphale remembered, blushing. Oh well, maybe Quentin would at least get a laugh out of his efforts. He was too serious for a ten-year-old.

After some fussing, Aziraphale managed to do a few cup and ball tricks and some sleight of hand. To his relief, Quentin seemed amused. By the time the bells chimed, somewhere in the building, to mark the hour, the boy was laughing. “You seem nice,” he said. “Thanks for listening. Can I come back here again?”

“Yes, of course, but I’m afraid—”

“And the other kids who are having trouble, I can bring them, too?”

“Um, certainly, I should say so, but –”

Quentin slid off of his seat. “Great. Thanks. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale waved as he scampered off, hoping he’d done the right thing.

GREENDALE ORCHARDS

Crowley and Sabrina left the Bentley near the corn maze and the stalls stuffed with produce. He led her away from the crowds and the farmers, deeper and deeper into the old orchard. They came to the heart of the grove, where the oldest, meanest looking apple tree stood. He glanced up at its gnarled branches, blotting out the weak autumn sun. Shadows shifted in her leaves. Long ago, he had been a snake, sleeping beneath the roots of this tree.

“This is the spot where I met your aunties,” he told her.

“Really?”

“I didn’t come to Greendale expecting to find a family . . . demons, we’re lonely things. Damned things. Six thousand years being on my own. I’d never let anything happen to you, Sabrina.”

She frowned at him. “If this is supposed to tug on my heartstrings . . .”

His eyebrows rose over the top of his sunglasses. “It’s not?”

“. . . I just don’t think I’m an evil person,” she sighed.

“Who is?” he grinned, plucking a shiny red apple off the tree. “Good, evil, they’re just words. Demons, angels, we’re from the same stock.” He tossed her the apple.

She caught it. “What’s this?” 

“Fruit of knowledge. And this tree is old. Ancient, really. Seen a lot. Knows things.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “The _tree_?”

“Sure. The witches call it a _malum malas_. Ask it a question, it might tell you an answer.”

“Really?”

“Look, I know apples.”

She polished it on her sleeve. “And the tree will tell me . . . what, exactly?”

Crowley stalked around her, looping in a wide circle, hands thrust in his pockets. He stared up at the grey sky through his sunglasses. “Well . . . I’ll tell you the same thing I told Eve,” he said to her, “why don’t you try a bite and see?”

He watched with interest as Sabrina’s teeth broke through the bright red skin of the apple. Just as, six thousand years earlier, he’d watched Eve.

But this time was different.

Sabrina’s face lost all colour. Her eyes grew wide and unfocused, and her mouth fell open. She didn’t make a sound, but he could tell she was screaming. “No!” he shouted, lunging forwards to catch her, as the apple fell from her limp fingers, rolling in the dirt at the base of the tree.

Something was wrong. This wasn’t supposed to—

_Sabrina saw the sky turn red, flood red, like it was boiling with blood. Four figures stalked towards her, emerging from the distance in a haze. Fire roared. The air itself seemed to be screaming –_ _A woman with flaming hair, splattered in blood; a figure all in white, ooze dripping from a tarnished crown; a man who smiled like a shark and just looking at him made her feel like she was starving; and the final figure, swathed in blackness more absolute than the darkest corners of the night . . . her heart pounded. She wanted to run, but her body was paralyzed. The ground beneath her feet began to tremble violently. The dirt cracked like a shell, spilling sand and steam. Smoke and fire erupted from the depths._ _  
_

_Her father stood next to her, reaching for her left hand. From his back, his wings were extended – he’d never shown her his wings – they were enormous and black. Someone squeezed her right hand. She glanced to the side. A man with curly blonde hair, she didn’t know. In his other hand he was holding a flaming sword. Wings rose from his back as well. Blindingly white. Her heart was in her throat. The ground shook so hard it felt like it was trying to buck them off. She was only standing because her dad and the other man were holding her up, between them. Her skin was burning, but she couldn’t scream. She couldn't scream.  
_

_And He was approaching, worse than the four figures, worse than the angel, or the earthquake, or the bloody sky – the Dark Lord, his head a drooling goat, long horns curling like spikes, his hooves tearing at the ground. He roared and she finally found her voice as a primal scream tore out of her throat –_

“Sabrina! Sabrina!” Crowley shouted her name. She trembled in his arm, thrashing and screaming. _No!_ This wasn’t supposed to happen! “I’m sorry – I’m so sorry – Sabrina, wake up! Wake up!”

“Dad!” she gasped, looking up at him. Her eyes were clear again. She pressed her face into his shoulder, sobbing. “Dad! It – it was horrible – I think -”

“Sabrina, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I didn’t think –”

“I saw _Him_. I think I saw _Him,_ ” she choked. “The _Dark Lord_.”

“No, no, no,” Crowley shook his head in disbelief, holding her tightly.

She looked at him, clutching the sleeves of his jacket, “and . . . I think . . . I think I saw the end of the world.”


	6. Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, everyone, for all the lovely comments. 
> 
> There are a few Doctor Who references in this chapter, but if you’re not familiar, don’t worry, it doesn’t change anything. I’m just having a bit of fun. ;)

Friday, October 31st 

the present year

MIDNIGHT

Sabrina ran through the Greendale woods, towards the arch of blue flame. The fire wreathed the darkest part of the forest without burning the trees, and the coven assembled beyond its shifting veil. Black branches stretched across the path, meeting overhead and creating a tunnel. Far above, the moon was full, bloated and red as blood.

Stumbling on the uneven path, one of her pink heels caught in a root that yanked it off her foot. She couldn’t find it in the dark and couldn’t afford the time to look. So she kicked off her other heel and kept running.

Aunt Zelda hadn’t wanted her to leave the house, let alone go to a mortal Halloween party – according to Auntie Z, the day of a witch’s Dark Baptism should be spent in contemplation of the _Satanic Verses_. Her dad had finally convinced them to let her go, have one final night with her human friends, at which point Hilda had produced a shocking pink dress that had belonged to Sabrina’s mother.

The party was fun, but she was starting to think she’d stayed out too long. Her heart caught in her throat as she stumbled through the blue flames. The fire did not burn her. She passed through the veil and the darkness swallowed her whole.

A moment later, she saw that the grove was filled with witches and warlocks. They turned to stare at her. Many of them held torches. Chanting filled the night, but beneath the chanting, she heard murmurs, suspicion. _The half-witch_. Sabrina shivered, searching the crowd frantically for her family.

She gasped when Crowley stepped out of the shadows, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. “ _Sssabrina_.”

Great, he was hissing. She must be later than she thought.

Hilda hurried to her side. “Oh, you look so lovely, my darling! Like a princess out of a fairy tale.”

“Don’t coo over her, Hilda,” snapped Zelda. “Honestly, child, late to your own Dark Baptism!”

The crowd around them shuffled apart, creating a path for Father Blackwood. He wore red and gold robes that glinted in the torchlight. She felt her dad tense behind her. He kissed the top of her head as the priest swept his arms wide, addressing the crowd, more than their family:

“Who presents this child for unholy baptism?”

Sabrina’s shiver grew worse. The wind felt like knives, slicing through the fabric of the jacket she had thrown on over the dress. Crowley made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a growl. She felt his hands on her shoulders for a brief moment, before he let go. “Get on with it, Faustus.”

The high priest sneered. “Kneel, child.”

She glanced back, over her shoulder, at her dad. He was wearing his dark glasses, as usual, but she could read the tension plain on his pale face. Her aunties stood on either side, reaching for his hands.

“Don’t look at _him_ , girl! Look at me!” Father Blackwood bellowed. “And KNEEL!”

Taking a deep breath, Sabrina smoothed her pink skirts, buoyed by lace petticoats, and knelt on the cold soil. Father Blackwood was handed a bowl filled with blood. He used his fingers to smear the blood across her brow, in the shape of an inverted cross. She fought not to cringe at his touch.

“Do you believe in Lucifer? The archangel who preferred the loss of Heaven to that of His pride?”

She wished she could see her dad’s face. Despite being a demon himself and one of the fallen, he had never really told her about angels, or falling, or Lucifer. Still, she couldn’t exactly stop the ceremony at this point to ask for his opinions.

“Yes, Father.”

He smiled at her. “In exchange for this belief, you shall be granted powers that will enable you to serve the Dark Lord. _Sabrina Antonia Rose Spellman_ are you willing to forsake the Path of Light and follow the Path of Night?”

“I am.”

“And are you willing to place the Dark Lord above all others in your life – be it your loved ones, your family and friends?”

She felt the blood on her forehead crease as she frowned. _This wasn’t a question she had been expecting . . . she couldn’t . . . could she?_ Swear _to put the Dark Lord above her dad? Above her aunties?_ “I . . . I . . . ”

Blackwood grabbed her hand. The Book of the Beast was before them, though she couldn’t remember standing, or crossing the grove. The ground was cold beneath her bare feet.

Thunder shook the sky. Her head was spinning. The torchlight blurred together in her eyes. Blackwood pulled her hand above the open pages of the ancient book, and sliced her palm with his dagger.

It happened so quickly she did not feel much pain, but the sight of her blood dribbling down and pooling on the thick parchment made her stomach clench.

“In signing this book, you swear to obey without question any order you receive from the Dark Lord, or from any figure he has placed in authority over you.”

_What?_

Sabrina couldn’t move. Her heart pounded in her chest and blood roared in her head, as loud as the wind shaking the tops of the trees. Had the wind always been so loud? It sounded like she was underwater, at the bottom of the crashing sea.

_What_

_What about freedom?_

_What about free will?_

Neither her aunts, nor Crowley, had mentioned anything like this and she felt a sudden surge of irritation at them, that they hadn’t prepared her for this demand. _Was this how it was really supposed to be? Did she have a choice? Or had Crowley made the choice for her, back when he’d sauntered on out of Heaven?_

 _No, that wasn’t right,_ she shook her head. She was _her own_ person _._ It didn’t matter what promises her father might have made. Or her aunts. Or anybody else.

Her hand holding the pen began to shake.

Faustus Blackwood covered her hand with his own, pressing down firmly, so that the nib struck paper, smearing in her blood. A sudden spasm raced up her arm, and Sabrina pushed him off, with a strength that took her by surprise.

The high priest stared back at her like she’d grown a second head, for the moment rendered speechless.

“I can’t do this,” she said, dropping the bone-pen in the dirt and backing away.

The chanting of the crowd grew louder, more intense. She heard booing and shouting. Her eyes stung with tears. And then – in the midst of the crowd – she caught sight of Aunt Hilda, Aunt Zelda, Crowley looking shocked, upset – and there, just beside them but seemingly invisible to her aunties and her father, was a young woman with long blonde hair. The wind kept blowing her hair in front of her face, but Sabrina saw a glimpse of large brown eyes – eyes she’d only seen in a photograph.

The figure was hazy, bleeding in and out of the night, frayed at the edges. _Spectral vision. Bleeding through. A ghost._ A ghost mouthing one word over and over and over again, shouting without sound – “ _RUN!_ ”

Crowley stepped right through the apparition without seeing her. “Sssabrina –”

But she could move again. Her limbs were shaking, but she could move. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

She ran.

“ _Get her_!” Blackwood screamed.

A group of witches moved to block her path, and were knocked down by the very big snake that was suddenly there. Sabrina didn’t wait to see what would happen next, she hopped over Crowley’s snake form and darted back into the forest.

Trees snatched at her, ripping her mother’s – _her mother, standing in that grove, screaming silently for her to run_ – her mother’s pink dress.

Sabrina stumbled and fell in the mud. Crawling hastily to her feet, she limped forwards a few steps before regaining her footing, and kept running. Rose’s dress hung off her in tatters, and her chest and face were splattered with mud.

Sabrina ran until she reached the edge of the wood, breath burning in her throat, chest heaving. But even then, she couldn’t stop. Her legs were water. She nearly fell again when she reached the road – but somehow managed to keep going, barefoot and shivering, up the hill, towards their house – the Spellman Sisters’ Mortuary.

She had nearly made it to the graveyard, where the Bentley was parked haphazardly, when the coven found her. They swarmed the hill, pouring out of the shadows, torches held high, yelling and screaming her name. She’d never make it to the front doors –

Father Blackwood was at the front of the pack. “While the Blood Moon still shines, you must _sign_!”

“NO!” she screamed back.

The Bentley’s headlights flared to life behind her, and she heard a click as the passenger door popped open. Sabrina flung herself inside and the door slammed shut behind her, locking.

Sabrina lay against the seats for a minute, catching her breath. Sitting up, her hands on the door, she peeked out the window and saw a great black snake scatter the mob.

L A T E R

Crowley sent his sisters home to check on Sabrina, but after chasing Blackwood’s mob away, he found himself wandering back into the haunted forest. Poor idea. Poor Crowley with his poor ideas. He couldn’t help himself. His traitorous feet in their snakeskin shoes knew the way and walked it.

He was one of the Fallen and, as much as he acted otherwise, he could not outright disobey a summons. Satan had _his_ name, after all - his real name, his old name.

He tried not to think that he was secretly proud of Sabrina for not signing hers away.

The grove, now deserted, crackled and seethed with the rotten-egg stench of brimstone. Few knew the mine tunnels extended this far. The Devil’s Doorway, the locals called them, so deep they go down to Hell.

_Oh, if you poor sods only knew . . ._

Crowley raised a hand to adjust his glasses when a claw skewered straight through his right shoulder. He choked on his cry, struggling even as he felt the rancid breath burn against his cheek. Cloven hooves dug into the dirt behind him, pawing at the earth.

Crowley managed an “Urk,” choking up a bubble of blood. He tasted it against his teeth as the claw shredded muscle and scraped against bone. If he’d been human he would have been screaming, but he didn’t dare.

“Crawly . . . you disappoint me, little worm.”

Crowley felt his corporation’s hot human blood spill down his chest, soaking his jacket and running thickly down his arm. “After all the gifts . . . I’ve given you, of late. A princeship of Hell? Your very own angel to torture? _This_ is how you repay me? Disobedience and betrayal?”

Hastur and Ligur stepped out of the trees then, eyes blank and black, smiles deadly. “The boss is right cross.”

“You won’t talk your way out of this one, _your highness_ ,” Ligur grinned.

Behind him, the goat made a noise that caused even two thugs like Hastur and Ligur to flinch and back away. Crowley shuddered. His mind raced, trying to think of what to say – normally, he was good at talking his way out of things with Hell. But this was _Sabrina_. If he said the wrong thing . . .

“She _will_ sign my book,” the Beast that had once been an angel growled, lips curling on his drooling snout. Steam poured out his wide nostrils. It felt like hooks were embedded into Crowley’s skin, lifting him off the ground. The pain was incredible.

“Yes, my Lord,” he said, because that was the only thing he _could_ say. The only thing that wouldn’t have him eviscerated on the spot. And if his corporation was destroyed and he was dragged back to Hell, that wouldn’t do any of them any good. So he fought the pain, and the black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and the feeling like was about to be torn to shreds at any moment. He struggled to stay conscious and keep talking, keep the Beast appeased. “Sign your book. Yes. Yes, she will, of course she will, I swear it.”

“You will convince her. She _trusts_ you, doesn’t she?”

He felt sick. He was going to be sick.

The voice, like gravel and torn metal in his ear, “ _doesn’t_ she?”

“Yes, Master. She’ll sign your book.”

“Do not . . . disappoint me . . . again, Crawly, or you shall know suffering beyond the end of this universe.” Without waiting for a response, Satan released him – flinging him forwards. He fell to the ground in a heap, the air knocked out of him, his shoulder a twisted mess.

Hastur and Ligur crept forwards again, grinning.

Hastur kicked him sharply in the gut. Ligur punched him in the side of the head. And demon or not, after a few more blows like that, the world went black.

~ * ~

The world went black, but he wasn’t discorporated. Apparently the Boss had believed him when he said he could get Sabrina to sign the Book of the Beast, because, well, he got to wake up.

He woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a lorry (and then had the lorry reverse over him, and run him down again,) but _he woke up_.

The sky was grey with the first muted hints of daylight. Crowley was dimly aware of it. His eyes were swelling up, his body was bruised and broken. Being a demon he could fix it – sort of. It would take some time and concentration. Laying in the woods, unable to move for a several moments, just feeling the breath fill and exit his lungs in ragged gasps, he thought of the restless spirits that lived there and _knew_ he had to move. But the slightest twitch caused him to scream.

He fell back against the ground, sweating and shaking. _Alright, you’re not some mortal idiot, you can do this. Concentrate._

But he couldn’t teleport _home_. He knew the sight of him would terrify his family. So, head spinning, barely able to think, he focused on the only other place he could think of in the moment – his rooms at the Academy of Unseen Arts.

THE ACADEMY

Aziraphale was startled by a loud thud from the headmaster’s office. He had been sitting in the bedroom, waiting for Anathema to join him for their morning tea, but the sky was just barely growing light and, in any case, that hadn’t sounded like the young witch.

He stood, feeling a momentary wash of panic. Did he investigate? Did he stay put? He wrung his hands nervously for a moment, looking at the bedroom door.

_Oh, come now, you were never this anxious, surely,_ he chided himself.

But

Well, he was still so unsure of his place here, and what if something had happened that Crowley would blame him for? _Gabriel had seemed to take a particular pleasure in blaming him for things far beyond his control._ Of course, that was _If_ Crowley ever returned . . .

Aziraphale hesitantly opened the door, stepping through the rooms and into the main office. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything, until he crossed round to the other side of the imposing desk and gasped.

The demon, Crowley, lay face-down upon the floor. For a moment, Aziraphale stared in blank confusion, blinking, then realized blood was pooling beneath the demon. And his long limbs were bent in quite unfortunate directions. The angel’s heartbeat picked up and he couldn’t help shuddering in sympathy.

Oh dear. This was bad. This was very bad. And confusing.

Part of Aziraphale wished, instinctively, to rush to Crowley’s side and offer some aid. After all, Aziraphale was an angel, and angels were natural healers, it rather came with the territory. But he had no idea if approaching a demon in this state was wise, or even wanted. Could he help? Or would an angel attempting to heal a demon just make things worse – like dunking him in holy water? Or, Crowley could be angry and lash out, like a wounded animal in a trap. Aziraphale had no idea what to expect. He hovered, swaying back and forth in indecision.

Crowley made a pained sound, a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and whimper that made the decision for him. Marshalling his courage and shoving his fear to the back of his mind, Aziraphale knelt on the rug beside the demon, hands hovering in the air over him. A blessing would probably be bad. But mending broken bones was easy, he’d done it a million times for humans when he’d lived on Earth (Upstairs had not always been too happy about that.) He was relatively certain he could treat Crowley’s human corporation.

Taking a steadying breath, Aziraphale carefully ran his hands down one shattered arm, feeling the bone knit back together, the muscle and sinew reweave like a tapestry, the blood reverse course, flowing back into the wound.

_“There, there – and you’ll feel no pain, no pain at all,”_ he whispered.

In the back of his mind, Aziraphale wondered what could have caused such extreme damage. Crowley’s black leather jacket hung off him, carved into slices, and gouge marks on his back hewed through the lithe muscle. Bloody chunks of flesh had been torn out, making it look like a wild animal attack. A grizzly bear’s claws, perhaps, could have done this.

Aziraphale hummed lightly while he worked, repairing the damage. Being a supernatural entity, Crowley’s own innate powers also sped up the process, so it wasn’t very long before he began to huff in a breath, and push himself up on his hands and knees.

“Ugh,” he said, hair falling his eyes. “What –?”

He glanced over, saw Aziraphale, and his eyes widened. Aziraphale realized this was the first time he had seen the demon’s eyes. They were snake eyes. Golden-yellow with slit pupils, but quite lovely, he thought to himself, as they focused and expanded.

The demon darted backwards, slamming into the desk. Aziraphale winced in sympathy.

“Ow. What. What. _What are you doing?!”_

“Oh. Just – just trying to help. I mean –” he gestured rather feebly at the demon’s long legs, which had been broken quite badly a few second ago. “Should I not have? Only – you looked, well – well to put it very bluntly -”

“. . . huh,” Crowley bent forwards, running a hand down his healed limbs. A moment later, he raised his hands to his face, conjuring a fresh pair of black shades, and slid them into place. “To put it very bluntly, you’ve seen pieces of roadkill in better shape than me?”

“Oh. Oh no! No, no, I would never say such a thing!” Aziraphale gulped. “Only, you did look a tad out of sorts.”

“A _tad out of sorts_?” Crowley repeated, shaking his head at him.

“Yes, err . . . perhaps, slightly indisposed?”

“ _Indisposed?_ My bloody arm was hanging off!”

Aziraphale flinched at the demon’s tone. He was suddenly very much regretting this. Crowley seemed angry, and quickly pushed himself up to his full height, with Aziraphale left kneeling on the ground beneath him. He was reminded that the demon had complete power over him. “I . . . I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely coming out.

~ * ~

Crowley was doing this all wrong. It took him a moment to realize it, but his brain finally caught up when he noticed how pale and quiet the angel had gotten. Aziraphale’s large blue eyes were looking up at him with a fear that Crowley most definitely had not meant to put there.

It’s just – he had just woken up with all his bones broken, okay? He wasn’t at his best, socially. But none of that was Aziraphale’s fault.

And the angel had . . . the angel had _healed_ him. The angel had healed _him_. Unworthy him. It made something shake in his chest. After everything Crowley had done, Aziraphale chose to help him. This wasn’t . . . angels didn’t just shelter demons beneath their wings, after all.

“Ugh, look, it’s a waste of a bloody miracle,” he covered up his confusion with an exaggerated groan and sighed. “I would have recovered on my own in a minute or two, anyways.” Or a few hours, or days, or whatever. Who was counting?

Still.

He grimaced, offering the angel a hand up, to show there were no hard feelings. But Aziraphale looked rather apprehensive about taking it. Not that Crowley could rightly blame him. The angel had no business wanting to be in the same room with him, let alone healing his wounds.

“. . . forgive me, I didn’t mean to overstep,” the angel said quietly. He looked so sad and troubled, when Crowley thought he should look more irritated for having to put up with him.

“No, err, that’s not exactly what I –”

They were interrupted by a knock at his office door, and Crowley frowned in surprise as his secretary, Anathema, came in balancing a tray of tea. She froze at the sight of him, clearly surprised to see him and then, just as clearly, trying to cover up that surprise with, “oh, Headmaster! I’ve . . . err, I’ve brought you tea.”

“. . . right. Like _that’s_ a thing you do.”

“Still trying for that raise!” her chipper tone and smile were strained.

Aziraphale was wringing his hands and looked like he wanted very much to slink away. Crowley looked from one to the other of them. “. . . oh are you fucking kidding me?! What happened to _no one talk to the angel_! Anathema!” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “Angels don’t even drink tea.”

This was just perfect. All he needed now was for the poor angel to be harassed by a bunch of nosy Satanists on top of everything else. His guilt was already doing backflips. He really couldn’t handle much more of this.

“But –”

“No, no –” he urged her back through the doors.

Once they were out in the hallway, he hissed at her: “the angel is not something of you all to gawk at like – like a zoo animal!”

“No, but, Crowley –”

“I said go!” he snapped, with more force than he usually used to address the staff.

She gave him a dirty look, but he was relieved when she left, taking her tea with her. Thank _Someone_ , that was one crisis averted, at least. And oh, how quickly he’d gone from wanting to protect the coven from the angel, to wanting to protect the angel from the coven!

Crowley shook his head, leaning against the closed office doors. He still wasn’t entirely sure which he needed to be more concerned about, but something about the stricken way Aziraphale had looked at him, made him want to protect the angel. It was definitely best for everyone if the angel and the Satanists stayed well apart. Only common sense, when you thought about it.

And with that decided, he could concentrate on some of his other problems – like how to protect Sabrina from his Boss, and what they would tell the rest of the coven about her refusing to sign the Book of the Beast. Part of him wanted to pack it in and return to London (with Sabrina and his sisters, of course), but the “Spellmans” had built a home among the Greendale witches, and he didn’t think Hilda and Zelda would be willing to just up and leave all that. And then Sabrina had school, and her mortal friends . . . Crowley tugged a hand through his hair, pacing the corridor.

But what if Hastur and Ligur showed up again?

Could things be any more of a mess?

. . . _Of course they could_ , he realized, as an infernal summons belched itself into existence in front of him, a long crimson scroll unfurling out a puff of sulfuric smoke.


	7. The Trial

Monday, November 3rd

When he walked through the door it was after three. Sabrina had just gotten home from school, and the family was congregated in the kitchen. Zelda looked like an angry cat, back arched, eyes flashing as she leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “ _There_ you are!”

“. . . here I am,” he agreed tiredly, making his way to the coffee.

“And where have you been all weekend?”

“Zells . . .” Hilda left off chopping vegetables. “Don’t you think we have bigger, well, things to worry about?” she asked quietly, wiping her hands on her apron.

“ _Indeed_.” Zelda threw their own infernal summons down on the kitchen table, in front of him. “Perhaps _you_ can impress upon your daughter the magnitude of such a summons.”

“Ugh,” he wrinkled his nose, taking a long sip of coffee. “This coffee is terrible.”

“ _Crowley_!”

He sighed. “You too, huh?”

“What is it?” asked Sabrina.

“Nothing.” Crowley snatched it off the table, making a show of crumpling the thick parchment in his hands.

Zelda huffed, rolling her eyes. “Really, brother, you are impossible –”

“They’re just trying to bully you, sister.”

“ _Excuse_ me? Have you forgotten, that ‘they’ have the ability to strip Hilda and I of our powers? Which means we will age rapidly and _rot_ in front of you and _die_?”

Hilda flinched at her tirade and Crowley blanched, looking from one sister to the other.

“Can . . . can the coven _do_ that?” Sabrina asked.

“The coven? No. The infernal court and the Dark Lord?” Zelda’s eyes narrowed. “Most certainly yes.”

“No . . . _no_ ,” Crowley shook his head, hands braced on the kitchen table. He tore the summons in half. “I _won’t_ let that happen.”

“Um . . . it’s already happening, love,” Hilda said quietly.

Zelda grabbed his hand roughly, yanking it up, off the table. She placed something small and hard in it. “ _This._ This is your sister’s tooth. Are you ready to take things seriously now?”

Crowley felt his stomach drop.

He was so accustomed to Hilda and Zelda being around, by this point, that even though they had aged _slowly_ over the past three centuries (now, all three of them appeared comfortably middle-aged) he sometimes forgot they weren’t _actually_ his siblings, and fragile in ways he wasn’t.

“ _No_ ,” he repeated firmly, letting his wings manifest. They unfurled from his shoulder blades, quickly flooding the crowded kitchen.

Sabrina gasped. “Dad!”

His black wings curled protectively around his family. “I can stop this. I can maintain your powers _myself,_ if I have to-”

“Don’t waste your strength!” Zelda snapped. She pushed at one of his wings, unimpressed. “This can all be resolved easily enough – we go to trial, Sabrina admits she was wrong and begs forgiveness –”

“What?” said Sabrina. “No! Aunt Z, I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Hilda, who was looking fondly at his wings, turned to Sabrina. “I’m afraid it is quite serious, my darling. You’re being charged by the Dark Lord with breach of promise-”

“ _Both_ of you,” interrupted Zelda, jabbing her finger into Crowley’s chest. She shoved his wing aside to stride past him. “I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life,” she muttered, stomping out of the room and slamming the door behind her.

Crowley watched her go, shivered and folded his wings away.

Sabrina gaped at him. “You mean . . . Satan is _suing_ us?”

Crowley rubbed his face, nearly pushing his glasses off. Was it too much to ask that he have one day off to think about things? Yes, _suing_ them. Sounded about right. _Lawyers._ A trial. Very Downstairs.

“But _I’m_ the one who didn’t sign the Book of the Beast. So, why is he punishing you and my aunties?”

“Because he’s a dick,” Crowley muttered.

“Now, now,” Hilda chided. She began smoothing the _infernal summons_ out again, laying the pieces on the table in front of them.

“The whole _family_ is going to be put on trial,” Crowley grumbled. And sure enough, all of their names were listed. _All_ of them. Even . . .

Sabrina, reading over his shoulder, tapped his arm. “Wait . . . who’s _Azira_ -”

“Nothing. Typo.” He crunched up the papers again, pausing only to glare at Hilda.

“But it’s handwritten.”

“Yeah, well, demons, you know. Terrible writers. Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’m really going to let them put you on trial.”

Not that he had a plan on how get her out of it. Yet.

* ~ *

Sabrina was up in her room, studying, when Hilda finally tutted at him. “You’re going to have to tell her about you-know-who sometime, my love.”

She poured them both a cup of tea. “And you can’t keep him locked away at the school forever . . .”

“Watch me.”

Hilda gave him a look that was both fond and exasperated. “The trial is scheduled for midnight. Do you – do you _really_ have a plan? Or is that just more of your bluster and bravado?”

Crowley shrugged, staring at the table top morosely. He shifted the crumpled pieces of paper around.

“Oh, Crowley . . .” she sighed, patting his arm. “Maybe your angel has some ideas?”

_His_ angel? Crowley drummed his fingers against the table, irritated to admit she was right.

He really hoped this didn’t end with him being dissolved in a tub holy water.

THE ACADEMY

Later that evening . . .

“ _Ummmm_. . .” Aziraphale stared at the group of about two-dozen students who were currently crowded around the doors to the Headmaster’s rooms.

Not to see the Headmaster.

To see _him_.

“Hello, Quentin,” said Aziraphale, forcing himself to smile and hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. Sweat was already starting to bead along his forehead and he stood in the doorway, twisting his handkerchief into knots.

The little boy stood at the front of a group of students of all ages. Aziraphale remembered how upset Crowley had been at him speaking to Anathema. He wasn’t supposed to interact with anyone at the Academy. Crowley was his master now . . . that’s what Gabriel had said. And . . . this . . . well. He couldn’t believe he was disobeying him _already_.

“You said I could come back, sir.”

“I . . . so I did. Ha . . .” he laughed weakly. “Yes, of course. I did.”

_Because I’m a fool, he thought,_ chastising himself. _Oh, Aziraphale, what have you gotten yourself into now?_

“And you said I could bring friends.”

Aziraphale swallowed. Twenty-odd students. “W-well, of course, I’m happy to see you, dear children, but now is, err, perhaps, not . . .”

All he could think was, _what if Crowley comes back?_ He had been so cross about Anathema even bringing him a cup of tea! And true, he hadn’t really reprimanded Aziraphale for that, but what was the sense in pushing his luck? He wasn’t so eager to find out how the demon’s punishments compared with an archangel’s. In fact, the thought was making his throat tighten and breathing become more difficult. Then, he had to remind himself sternly that he didn’t _need_ to breathe, before his physical corporation passed out.

Even _thinking_ of displeasing Crowley made him flashback to all of the times Gabriel had been . . . less than pleased with his performance as secretary. And that made his skin turn cold and clammy. His right hand was beginning to shake . . . 

While he was in a physical corporation, that physical corporation could be hurt. Though, of course, one didn’t like to think of such things . . . 

“Oh, _please,_ sir,” said Quentin, looking up at him with big, sad eyes. “It’s so frightening in the dormitories at night. With the ghosts. And the older students will come and scare us, sir, and steal our sheets . . . and-and I told them you were nice.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He supposed he’d just have to hope Crowley didn’t return tonight. “. . . oh, alright,” he said, holding the door open. “Come in.”

Soon Crowley’s office was filled with children, ranging in age from eight to eighteen. The older ones seemed intrigued by the headmaster’s office, running over to examine his books and desk, while the younger ones crowded around Aziraphale. _It’s going to be obvious people were in here_ , his brain chattered unhelpfully, anxiety rising as a pair of teenagers pulled a particularly dear looking treatise on the dark arts down from the shelf and began flipping through it.

But Aziraphale could hardly stop them, as the younger children had him cornered. “Quentin says you know magic tricks.” “Do you know any stories?” “Is it true you’re an angel?”

He supposed it was impossible to keep secrets in a school, of all places, but the children didn’t seem to be afraid of him, or repulsed by him, as the teachers had been. Which was something of a relief. Aziraphale didn’t exactly enjoy feeling like a pariah. And yet . . . _no one talks to the angel,_ Crowley had said. Perhaps it would have been more convenient if they _were_ afraid.

But one little girl was crying and Aziraphale found he couldn’t help himself from kneeling down and handing her his handkerchief. “Oh, my dear, whatever is the matter?”

“I miss my mommy . . .” the girl sniffled. “Everyone here is so mean.”

After a few moments, it became clear that even the teenagers were afraid of returning to their rooms, for fear of being bullied, subjected to a harrowing, locked in the dungeons, or having their blankets and pajamas stolen.

“Well . . . why can’t we just stay here?” a skinny teenager named Melvin asked.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to object, but was quickly drowned out in the resulting chorus of cheers. Aziraphale’s anxiety was twisting into hard knots in his stomach, but he also just couldn’t bring himself to turn out frightened children.

Eventually, it was decided they would all camp out in the office that night – and he just hoped he would be able to miracle the space back into a fit state in the morning.

He was able to conjure up sleeping bags and blankets and pillows – willing them quietly into existence inside one of Crowley’s cupboards so as not to draw (more) attention to himself. And soon the desk and chairs had been shoved out of the way, both fires were crackling merrily, and the students were all arranged on the floor, like they were camping.

“Do you know any stories?” one of the younger children asked.

Aziraphale thought back to all the books he had read. He supposed they were all about one hundred years out of date (at least) but it didn’t seem to matter. The children appeared quite happy to hear him recount what he remembered of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. Even the teenagers stopped talking and started to listen, sitting up in their sleeping bags.

Everyone had calmed down and was just on the verge of being ready for sleep . . . Aziraphale hummed, content with himself as he looked around the room at their peaceful faces. Perhaps, this would all work out –

Of course not.

The office doors flew open – the heavy wood crashing into the stone walls with such force they splintered and the panels cracked. Aziraphale jumped up, wings twitching, as students shouted and rolled, half tangled in sleeping bags and blankets so that they fell over themselves, even as they tried to scramble out of the way.

Three figures stood outlined in the doorway for a moment before entering.

They strode in as calm and confident as if they owned the place.

Quentin ran behind him. “The Weird Sisters!” he clutched Aziraphale’s hand. “They’re the biggest bullies in school.”

_Well, but, they’re only teenagers!_ Aziraphale thought to himself, wondering as the students cringed back, some taking cover behind him, others disappearing into the adjoining rooms. A teenage girl pulled the reluctant Quinten away, and soon it was just Aziraphale left facing the trio.

The three girls were slim and pretty, dressed in identical black dresses with overlarge lace collars and cuffs, making them look like Victorian dolls. They spread out, surrounding him, and smiled.

“. . . hello?” he said, blinking at them, feeling utterly lost.

“Hello,” they replied, in unison. Eerie, that. They were witches, and powerful. He could feel the magic humming in the air, like a living thing, crackling and writhing invisibly all around them.

The middle girl stepped forward. She had dark skin and bleached blonde hair. She held his gaze, still smiling, but her eyes were hard. “You should not have come here . . . angel.”

The sisters began to chant. Their words rolled into the air of the room like thunderheads building. Their voices, in such controlled unison, spun a vortex of terrible power. Static pricked at his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

When the pain came, slamming into him, it was so vicious and sudden that it took him by surprise. He hadn’t thought to shield himself from them _. . . foolish, you stupid, foolish –_ The room spun sharply and a bitter taste flooded his mouth.

Aziraphale collapsed to his knees, the pain increasing. Tears stung his eyes. He could fight back – draw on his powers as a principality – but not without slamming that power feedback straight into the girls. And they were still children, despite everything. _And he told you not to talk to them! This is your own fault._

“That pain in your head?” the main girl asked, and he blinked up at her, eyes swimming. She was still smiling, wider now, eyes positively dancing. “That’s your brain atomizing into dust.”

He tried to breathe and could not. The pressure on his chest felt like an elephant standing on it, crushing the life out of him. _Don’t panic, don’t panic . . ._ he told himself. _You don’t need to breathe._ But surely this was going to discorporate him. And Aziraphale didn’t know – if he discorporated now, would he wind up back in Heaven, or . . . ? (The other place.) (And which would be worse?)

The girls began to walk around him, still chanting, closing in like hunters, having crippled their prey.

“That heaviness in your lungs?” asked a girl with long ginger hair.

“That’s your lungs hardening,” answered her sister, a girl with twin black braids and black lipstick. “And your heart is turning to stone. Enjoy.”

Aziraphale tried to gasp, tried to hang on. His fingers dug uselessly at the carpet beneath him. He felt himself slipping away. A tide of darkness rose up behind his eyes – and just as suddenly, melted away.

It was as though a wave had come and swept all of the magic out of the room. The pain was gone and he found himself choking and shuddering, drawing in burning lungfuls of air in shaky gasps. He blinked quickly, trying to clear the black spots and tears from his eyes, in time to see Crowley standing over him.

The demon’s hands were raised and the girls had been pushed back by the force of the dispelled magic, but unhurt.

They were, however, shocked.

“Headmaster!”

“Prudence . . . Dorcas . . . Agatha,” Crowley greeted them each in turn, his expression carefully blank. “Daughters of the Church of Night. What do you think you’re doing here?”

“We . . . we are the Weird Sisters, sir,” said the main girl. Aziraphale thought she might be their leader. She was the quickest of her sisters to recover, immediately challenging Crowley. “The three-in-one. Protectors of this school.”

Crowley snorted at her, waving his hand dismissively. “Prudence . . . you are three unruly students who should be in bed.”

A hurt look crossed the girl’s face. “We haven’t done anything wrong. This man is an angel!”

“Yeah, well . . . he’s _my_ angel, so go back to bed. In fact, _all_ of you . . .” Aziraphale cringed as he watched Crowley finally taking in the full state of his office – the moved furniture, the heaps of blankets and pillows and now an assortment of students who were peeking out from the other rooms, looking frightened.

“What the Heaven is going on here?!”

But Aziraphale was also still struggling to regain his breath and slow his hammering heart, his spinning head. He found he couldn’t bring himself to stand.

All of the students began shouting at once and Crowley looked on, stunned. He raised his hands for quiet. “Enough . . . alright, enough. Return to your rooms. All of you. _Now_.”

The sisters hung back. The ginger-haired girl bit her lip. “Father Blackwood told us there was an angel here, that he was a witch-hunter, attacking the students –”

“ _Dorcas_!” Prudence hissed, as though the other girl wasn’t supposed to have said anything.

“Is that so, Dorcas?” one of Crowley’s eyebrows rose behind his dark glasses.

Prudence frowned, but since the cat was apparently out of the bag, she nodded in confirmation. “Father Blackwood told us that the students were in danger. That only _we_ could protect the academy.”

Crowley sighed. “There is nothing for you to do here, girls. The academy is perfectly safe. I will have words with Father Blackwood.”

The third girl, Agatha, crinkled her brow. “Wait, what do you mean ‘your’ angel?”

Aziraphale felt himself blush as the three turned to look at him again, this time their gaze even more intense. Crowley ignored them, turned and knelt next to Aziraphale on the carpet.

“Alright?”

He nodded, unable to look at Crowley. To think he had messed up again _already_. After everything. All his stupid vows.

“Surely, you could have fought back against witch magic,” said Crowley.

“Not without hurting them . . .”

He felt the weight of Crowley’s gaze, even hidden behind those black shades. “Not without . . . ?” The demon’s eyebrows rose. His mouth twitched. “Well . . . come on, then, angel, up we go.”

Crowley’s arm snaked around him, and he tried not to flinch at the contact. But all Crowley did was help him to his feet, before turning to the Weird Sisters, who continued to hesitate in the doorway.

“Do you know what would have happened, if Aziraphale had fought back?” he asked them.

They stared. Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. Oh, how he wished Crowley _wouldn’t . . ._

“Your blood would have boiled in your veins. You would have bled from every orifice, melting from the inside out. Your skin would have turned to charcoal and you would have crumbled into ash right here on this carpet. _Now go back to bed!_ ”

The girls scattered.

“What?” Crowley said, catching his expression.

“I – I wish you wouldn’t say things like that . . .” he clutched his hands nervously. Now they would hate him. Now they would be _afraid_ of him.

“You could have done,” Crowley muttered, kicking a half-unrolled sleeping bag out of his way. He stalked over to his bookcase, scanning for something.

“N _-no_ ,” said Aziraphale, even though he wasn’t supposed to disagree. His voice came out thin and shaky. But he shook his head fervently when Crowley glanced back at him. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment. “Smiting things is what your lot do.”

“Well, _I’ve_ never actually . . . smitten – smote? – I’ve never killed anyone,” his voice was a scratchy whisper by the end, as Crowley’s gaze never left him and the demon slowly approached again. Finally, he was standing so close, nearly leaning over Aziraphale. They were nose-to-nose. Aziraphale couldn’t read his expression. Not with those glasses. Though, honestly, when did that even help him? Gabriel had taught him that unless he was actively told he had done well, he had done poorly. He was starting to tremble, as Crowley just continued to stare and stare at him.

“Huh,” the demon said finally. And then, the clock chimed. He glanced at the clock and then back to Aziraphale. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about infernal laws, would you?”

THE DESECRATED CHURCH

Midnight

Crowley drove himself and Aziraphale in the Bentley from the academy, over to the desecrated church. Downstairs was forcing his hand with this, summoning the entire family. And the angel was family, now.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He hadn’t ever known an angel to _not_ smite a demon or a witch – especially one that was _actively attacking_ them. When he had found Aziraphale in his office with the Weird Sisters, the air charged with destructive black magic, it was like all of his worst fears about their situation were coming true. He was certain that any second, the angel was going to erupt, and he’d be carrying the orphan girls’ corpses down to the graveyard. But Aziraphale hadn’t even fought back.

Crowley risked another glance at the angel currently sitting in his passenger seat, holding on tightly as Crowley floored it – he looked harmless enough, somehow dapper _and_ silly with his out of date suit and tartan bowtie, soft curls and ridiculous blue eyes. Really, what was Crowley going to do with him?

_He didn’t hurt the girls._

_He didn’t hurt the girls, even when they were trying to destroy him._

Still, Crowley’s hands clenched tighter on the wheel, until his knuckles whitened. He was pressing very hard on the accelerator. The main question, the real question, the most important question, was still kicking around inside his skull:

_What was he going to tell Sabrina?_

He hadn’t even had time to sort _that_ out. Would she be angry? Sabrina had never known her mother, but that didn’t mean she would be open to getting a second father dumped on her out of nowhere. _This is not how normal people do things . . ._

“Argh . . . bless it!” he snarled, yanking the wheel and spinning into the field outside the church, which served as car park.

Aziraphale looked rather shaken and Crowley wasn’t sure if it was a result of nearly getting discorporated by teenage witches, the too-fast car ride, or the fact that they were about to go on trial in front of a demonic judge. He had barely had time to explain the situation to the angel, who had stared at him with those pretty blue eyes – stared at him like he’d grown three heads. _Why is my life like this?_

“Alright,” he took a deep breath, killing the engine, and leaned back in his seat for a minute. He turned to the angel, opened his mouth, when his door was yanked open and Sabrina nearly yanked him out.

“ _Dad_! Where have you been? They’re about to start.”

Crowley unfolded himself from the Bentley, scooping Sabrina into a hug. “Don’t worry. They’re just trying to frighten you,” he murmured. But he thought about that night in the woods _– Hastur and Ligur, and the Big Man himself showing up to nearly rip Crowley’s arm out of its socket._

Satan wanted Sabrina in His Book.

Zelda was wearing large sunglasses, and a leopard print scarf over her red hair. She looked every inch a golden age film star. “We carry ourselves with aplomb and dignity, admit our wrongs, and try to put this whole sordid mess behind us. And who the Heaven is he?” she pointed her cigarette at Aziraphale.

Crowley coughed, shifting his feet uncomfortably, hands in his pockets. “Ah . . . this is not how I wanted . . .”

Sabrina looked Aziraphale up and down, stepped past her aunts and extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Sabrina Spellman. These are my aunts, Hilda and Zelda. You . . . seem to know my father?”

The angel looked at him, like he was looking for permission. _Permission to what? Say hello?_ Crowley always felt like he was on the wrong foot with Aziraphale, or more like, he was just missing something. He nodded jerkily. This night was not going to get any easier.

“Ah . . . yes. I’m Aziraphale. It’s nice to meet you.”

Zelda tsked and turned away. “. . . the angel,” she said, derisively.

Sabrina looked back and forth between them, confused. “Seriously?”

“Oh, well, come on, Zells, maybe he can help. You never know,” said Hilda, who made her way forwards, shaking Aziraphale’s hand with enthusiasm. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Hilda.” She nodded at Crowley. “His sister.”

Aziraphale looked thoroughly confused (and a bit frightened) but smiled and nodded politely. “Happy to meet you.”

“Oh. My. A real life angel,” Hilda giggled nervously. “I never thought I’d live to see the day-”

“We may not,” said Zelda dryly.

The tolling of the broken bell rang out over the field. Above them, the sky was full dark. Aziraphale shivered. Crowley couldn’t say he blamed him.

“Sabrina, come and walk with me,” said Zelda, drawing his daughter away and wrapping an arm around her protectively.

As cross as Zelda may have been with Sabrina for mucking up her Dark Baptism, Crowley knew he could still count on her to protect her, always.

“Um . . . why is your daughter on trial, again?” Aziraphale asked, as they made their way into the church.

“For refusing to sign her nam in Satan’s book. And don’t say ‘good,’” he gave the angel a sharp look. And instantly regretted it when Aziraphale outright flinched.

“Oh, no. Of course not . . . but um, she’s half-demon? That girl?” he sounded disbelieving.

Crowley snorted. “ _So_? And don’t say that means she _has_ to sign, either, or any such garbage like that . . . it’s just genetics, in’it? Besides, I was an angel _once_ . . .” he muttered. 

Inside, the desecrated church was lit all over by flickering red torches. Blackwood (and _of course_ it was bloody Faustus Blackwood) stood at the pulpit, dressed all in black. Crowley’s lips curled into a snarl at the sight of the git.

“We, the profane, gather here tonight in this sacrilegious court to serve the Dark Lord’s justice.”

Justice. Crowley snorted. _Yeah, right._ As though his side did “justice.”

The Spellmans sat altogether in one of the long pews. Zelda, with her arm braced protectively around Sabrina, then him, spread out, one arm resting against the back, like it wasn’t uncomfortable as _Heaven_ , hopefully looking more confident then he felt. Aziraphale perched next to him, sitting stiff and straight and very proper, looking _incredibly_ out of place. Hilda finally, on the end, clutching her purse in her lap.

_What a group they made . . ._ _Faustus, are you disgusted by me, or are you jealous of me?_ Crowley wondered. He tapped one of his snakeskin boots against the church floor.

“Sabrina Spellman stands accused, before the infernal judge, of breaking her promise, her pledge –”

The ‘infernal judge’ – now who could that be? Crowley frowned, his gaze slowly tracking across the floor, to where an uncomfortable looking metal throne had been erected, complete with jagged horns springing from the back. And the figure lounging there, well, they _looked_ human, deceptively small and slim, wearing a rumpled suit, their black hair messy and long, a swarm of insects in a frenetic cloud moving around their head _. . . Beelzebub._

“Beelzebub, _you’re_ the judge?”

He tried to sound casual. Tried to swallow the panic rising like a wild thing, clawing inside his chest.

_Beelzebub,_ one of the great old ones. Beelzebub, who resented his promotion to ‘prince,’ who had doubtless resented being made to watch him consummate his recent marriage, and who would take particular sadistic pleasure in watching his family burn.

_Burn as all flesh burns. Burn forever in the pit._

“Dad, who are they?” Sabrina turned, whispering against his ear.

He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry.”

“Stand, Sabrina,” Blackwood commanded.

Blackwood was prosecuting them. And who was defending them? _Hastur? Dagon?_

No. No one. Of course, no one. You don’t get a defense in Hell.

Sabrina stood, looking small and bright as a candle flame in that dark church.

“When the accused is found guilty, she will abandon her mortal life immediately and upon her death she shall burn for three hundred years in the pit –” and the coven erupted into cheers. Crowley was on his feet, snarling and snapping – one moment a snake, the next fighting to regain control and forcing himself back into human form.

The ‘judge’ lazily slammed their gavel, but this did nothing to halt the crowd screaming for Sabrina’s blood – Crowley doubted it was even meant to.

He caught Beelzebub’s eye across the dim room and saw their slow, hateful smirk.

He hissed.

“Accused, how plead you?” they asked, their voice ringing out across the throng.

“Not guilty!” he shouted.

~ * ~

“You know what breach of promise is, Miss Spellman?” Blackwood asked. Crowley watched, barely able to restrain himself from leaping out of his seat and tearing the warlock’s slimy face off. Aziraphale, sitting beside him, kept glancing at him nervously.

“It’s when you make a promise and then break it, which I categorically did not do,” she said.

He was proud of her. How confidant she sounded. How cool. He might have managed it, had it been _him_ on trial, and not her. But with his daughter’s life in Beelzebub’s and Blackwood’s hands . . . it was all he could do to keep still. Relatively still. He felt like a taut wire, vibrating and about to snap.

Blackwood prattled on, something about how Sabrina’s Dark Baptism was meant to be like a wedding to the Dark Lord. She looked as disgusted as he felt.

“ _Think of something, think of something_ ,” he muttered, to himself, slamming his palm into his forehead. “Come on, come on, come on . . .”

“Um, well, f-forgive me if it’s not my place to say,” Aziraphale whispered, shimmying closer to him on the pew. “But . . . she’s . . . she’s _half-human_ , isn’t she?”

Crowley glanced at him, surprised. “You can tell that?”

“Um, well. Yes. An angel can sense these things. I’m right, aren’t I? Her mother . . .”

“Was human,” he confirmed. “Yessss.”

Aziraphale gestured excitedly. “But if Sabrina is even _half_ -human, then that makes her a Daughter of Eve. Don’t you see? If she truly didn’t sign her name, then Hell hasn’t any legitimate claim on her soul –”

Crowley frowned, mulling it over. “It’s not like every human gets into Heaven, either.”

“Well, she’s still a child.”

_Suffer the little children?_

Would that work? Did that hold up? _Here_?

Beelzebub rose from their throne, the cloud of flies shivering out across the church. The buzzing rose and their voice hummed with it. “ _Something to share with the class, Crawly_?”

The coven booed and stamped their feet as he stood.

“Sabrina was born to a mortal woman. That makes her a Daughter of Eve,” he said.

Discontented grumbles and curses rippled through the coven. Chants of ‘guilty’ and ‘traitor.’ Half of them at least were aimed at him. He ignored them. “She’s only _half_ a witch, Beelzebub. What are you gonna do, subject her to _half_ the law?” he sneered, hiding the shaking in his hands by curling them into the back of the pew in front of him.

“Silence, serpent.”

But he thought they looked just _a little_ nervous. A little unsure. They glanced at Blackwood. “Is this true, priest?”

Didn’t they know? That was why the Boss wanted her so badly – half-human, half-demon. Best of both worlds. But apparently Beelzebub was only working with a half a script.

“This is absurd,” said Blackwood.

“No, Sabrina Spellman was born to a human woman,” said Zelda. She and Hilda both rose in their seats.

“We can testify as witnesses to her birth,” said Hilda.

“Yeah, and the angel here can . . . smell it, or whatever.”

Aziraphale looked like he might object to that phrasing, but only clutched his hands nervously in his lap, glancing about at all the angry warlocks and demons filling the church, most of them now howling for Spellman blood to be spilt. _Yes, not a great time to join the family, sorry,_ he thought.

“Oh, so you would prefer us subject her to human law?” Blackwood asked, regaining his composure. “Shall we bind her with rope and throw her in the river – if she sinks and drowns you’ll know her dominant side was human after all? And if she floats to the surface, we can bring her back to stand trial? Or perhaps, you would rather we burn her at the stake? Or we should slam her into an iron maiden? Or strip her, and search for a witch’s mark-”

“Absolutely not,” he shouted.

“I forbid it!” added Zelda.

Beelzebub stood from their throne, walking slowly down the steps towards Blackwood and Sabrina. He watched his daughter eyeing the demon cautiously, and Beelzebub, strangely, eyeing her back. Curious, appraising. “What are _you_ , child?”

“I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“You, the principality,” Beelzebub demanded, snapping their fingers irritably at Aziraphale. “Come here and tell me what you see.”

Aziraphale glanced at him again, obviously terrified.

“We’ll go up together,” Crowley said, taking his arm. Surprisingly, the angel actually did look relieved by that. As though Crowley could really do anything to help him.

They made their way to the front of the church. The confined space was boiling over with rage and hate. He didn’t know how the angel was coping. It was suffocating. Downstairs had infected the place, and was spilling over.

The flies circling around Beelzebub grew more chaotic, and there seemed to be even more than before. They swirled this way and that, flickering in the torchlight. The demon was growing more and more irritated. Crowley could see them twitching. “Look at the girl. What do you see?”

“Um. Well . . .” Aziraphale took a deep breath, and turned to Sabrina. “It’s complicated. Beautiful. But, a . . . a human soul. Human _enough_ , I would say.”

“Enough?”

“For there to be . . . competing claims, I suppose.”

“ _What?”_ the demon growled.

They lunged forwards, quicker than Crowley could act. But Aziraphale, seemingly on instinct, unfurled his white wings, wrapping them around Sabrina and himself. They were blindingly bright in the white church and Father Blackwood recoiled, stumbling off the pulpit. He fell with a crash to the church floor.

Beelzebub was strong, though. The swarm descended, stinging those beautiful white wings. “Lord Beelzebub-” Crowley tried, but there wasn’t much he could do.

A pair of incredibly strong hands grabbed him from behind, yanking him back. And he smelled shit.

“Hastur.”

“Just here to watch you squirm, mate.” He fought against Hastur’s grip, but couldn’t shake him.

Dark shapes coalesced from the shadows of the church - demons, dozens of them, marching straight out of Hell in black armour, stained and rotting. They surrounded the congregation, half of whom were still crying for _his_ blood, while the other half finally began to wise up to the danger they were in. That was when the screaming started. One witch bolted from the back pews, tried to run, and was struck down by a demon, crumbling into dust.

Zelda and Hilda remained frozen in their seats. He saw Dagon, fangs flashing through her slimy face, draw a cruel blade and stalk towards them.

“STOP! Stop it!” he cried, still trying to wrench his arms out of Hastur’s grip. “Master! She will _never, never, NEVER_ sign your book if you do this!”

Beelzebub sneered at him, seemingly about to give the kill order –

When the church’s cellar doors sprung open, ringed in fire.

He could have sworn the church _didn’t have_ cellar doors five seconds ago, certainly not in the centre of the pulpit.

A hot, Chthonic wind blew up from the depths, carrying an acrid, rotten-egg stench.

The demons froze instantly, looking at one another, and to Beelzebub for instruction. He could hear their teeth grinding as they shook their head.

They fell back.

Everyone fell back.

Aziraphale’s wings slowly and stiffly unfurled. Sabrina stared at him. “Dad . . .”

“It’s . . . it’s fine. I’ll just go . . . talk to him, shall I?”

~ * ~

“You swore to me that you could convince her to sign, Crawly.” The voice was raspy and also like screaming. Like nails on a chalkboard. Like ice breaking.

“Yes! I did! But not in _an hour_! Not in _a day!”_

“Then _when_?”

“These things take time, Master . . . Please, please give me time. If you try to force her hand like this, she’ll run. She’ll refuse. She’ll die refusing you with her last breath.”

The Dark Lord paused, huffing out rancid air through his flaring nostrils. His long, wet claws dragged lightly across Crowley’s cheek. He didn’t dare to flinch.


	8. The Witch's Cell

“So, how exactly do you know my dad?” Sabrina asked.

“It’s not important,” Crowley answered for him, and Aziraphale fell silent.

They were outside, the five of them – Crowley, Aziraphale, Sabrina, Hilda and Zelda - the _Spellmans_. It was the very earliest part of morning – the sky still mostly black, with barely a promise of grey – and they stood just outside the desecrated church. It still stank of brimstone and rot, and demonflesh, but he could shake it off. A new day was at hand, and more new days after that. Cliché as anything, but he was happy that they were alive to see it.

He walked over to the Bentley, resting one arm across her shiny perfect hood while he waited for the others. He had won a slight reprieve for Sabrina. The Boss had agreed that he could take his time convincing her, as long as she started taking classes at the Academy of Unseen Arts, which certainly suited him. Satan had barely even tortured him. Hastur and the rest had gone off in a right snit, bloodlust unsated.

“Well, anyway, thank you,” she positively beamed at Aziraphale.

The angel smiled back at her – a nervous, timid smile. “You’re most welcome, my dear girl. I’m glad to be of help.” Crowley still couldn’t get his head around the angel, no matter how hard he tried. Why the man’s smiles always looked weighted with worry. _Well, you did just drag him into a showdown against Satan._

“Hey, you should come back with us,” said Sabrina. “To celebrate.”

Crowley almost laughed. Or cried. Or something. A lump built in his throat. How easy it was for _her_ to just invite the angel, without wrestling through a million worst-case scenarios. _And when had he become so paranoid? Wait, how does that saying go – it’s not paranoia if they really are all out to get you._

_I’m not ready for this._ He rubbed a hand across his face.

“Really, Sabrina, an angel,” tutted Zelda. How she could continue to sound so cool, like someone who had not almost been slaughtered by demons an hour ago, Crowley didn’t know.

“He saved my life, Aunt Z. And maybe my eternal soul?”

“She has a point,” said Hilda. None of the girls seemed tired. Maybe they were still coasting off an adrenaline high. Maybe they were just tougher than he was. Crowley wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere cool and dark and quiet. Somewhere that didn’t smell of fire.

“Yes, please do join us for breakfast, Mr. Aziraphale. We’d love it. Wouldn’t we? Zells? Crowley? Oh, I could make a proper English breakfast for us all – fried bacon, eggs, we’ve got some lovely fresh tomatoes -”

“Oh, well, that’s really very kind of you, but . . . I don’t know if . . . umm . . .”

“Well, I suppose you _did_ save my niece . . .” said Zelda, relenting. And she was speaking to Aziraphale, but looking across the car at _him._

They all stood around the Bentley. And each of their gazes shifted subtly to _him_. But he didn’t want the weight of their stares. And a hundred warring thoughts surging through his head. He still remembered the Flood, alright, all those dead kids. That was _their_ side.

_But he didn’t hurt the girls,_ the other half of him argued. _And he protected Sabrina._

_But I barely know him._

_Come on, you know him enough. You know he’s . . . a bit shy. A bit timid. A bit sweet. Be honest, you could stand to know him more, couldn’t you?_

Is _he sweet, though? Or is it an act?_

_Come on! Look at him! With his tartan bow tie! He wouldn’t say boo to a goose._

_But this is my family. If I make the wrong call, it’s not only me I’m hurting._

“Dad?” Sabrina touched the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah . . . just tired, sweetheart. I think . . .” he took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. They all watched him. “I think it’s been a long night. And we all need some rest. And Aziraphale needs to go back to his rooms, where he’s staying-”

“You mean at the Academy,” said Zelda dryly. He glared at her, but she was already lifting her cigarette to her pursed lips, raising her eyebrows at him like, _I dare you to say something._

He grunted.

“Oh? You’re staying at the Academy? The Academy of Unseen Arts?” asked Sabrina. They piled into the Bentley – he hoped Sabrina would sit up front, with him, but instead she seemed determined to sit next to Aziraphale in the back. “I didn’t think they allowed angels in the Academy. Isn’t it run by the Coven?”

“Special circumstances,” Crowley ground out through clenched teeth.

Zelda slipped into the passenger seat, shooting him a bemused glance. “If you drive like a maniac, dear brother, I will stab you in the eye.”

“Oh, Zelda,” Hilda giggled nervously, squeezing into the back with Sabrina and the angel (but looked at them like she thought her sister _might._ )

* * * *

Aziraphale sat stiffly in the back of Crowley’s automobile. After dropping off the ladies at what he assumed was the Spellman family residence (though a hand-painted wooden sign outside claimed it was also the village mortuary), Crowley took off at a _much_ faster speed. Aziraphale couldn’t say he’d gotten a good look at the house – and he didn’t want to pry, that would be rude – but, it seemed rather spooky. There was a small graveyard outside, and Crowley very nearly ran over one of the worn stone markers in his haste to reverse.

It was clear that the demon couldn’t wait to be rid of him, and didn’t want him anywhere near his family. Which . . . Aziraphale hadn’t dared to hope for anything different. Had he? He swallowed, hands clutched primly in his lap.

Crowley’s family was lovely, even though Aziraphale was a little confused about how a demon wound up with two witch sisters. His daughter seemed like a bright and charming young lady, and if he hadn’t known better he would never have believed she was half-demon. 

And sitting there, even for a few minutes, between the happily chatting Sabrina and Hilda, he had felt nostalgic for his old life on Earth – the easy camaraderie with friendly human beings. He hadn’t been able to contribute much to their conversation – he was acutely aware of _his husband_ , sitting in the front seat, the tension radiating in waves off his narrow shoulders, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, mouth set in a grimace.

Aziraphale was reasonably certain he hadn’t done anything wrong in the church – Sabrina had thanked him, after all. But if Crowley was angry about what had transpired with the other demons, with Downstairs, maybe that wouldn’t matter. Maybe he would take it out on him anyways. Maybe he was going to . . . _rip your wings out, one feather at a time, cut your skin off with hot pliers, smash all the bones in your hands_ . . . those things Sandalphon had said.

He tried to force those thoughts away, tried to stay calm, but Crowley was utterly, horribly silent and the Bentley was going faster and faster. _Faster and faster, like a comet plummeting from the upper atmosphere, falling and burning._

_Be good, Aziraphale. Do what the demon says. Show that Heaven has made this union in good faith and atone for your past mistakes._

By the time they approached the school, he was sweating beneath his collar. From the outside, the academy had the appearance of a long disused train station. Gehenna Station. How fitting. He had to bite his lip from saying _abandon hope all ye . . ._

“Well, come on,” Crowley snapped, flinging the door open and startling Aziraphale out of his reverie.

Aziraphale nodded mutely, slowly sliding out of the car. By now, the sky was lightening and the autumn air was chilly and damp. The harsh stone façade of the school (or station) was foreboding. He cleared his throat, wanting to say something, but his words faltered as soon as the demon turned in his direction. Crowley was so obviously out of sorts, pacing around Aziraphale as they approached the front doors. 

Besides, what would he say? _Please don’t be angry with me?_ How piteous, even in his own head. Besides, when had such entreaties ever proved successful? _Please don’t be angry with me for getting Arthur’s knights lost in that swamp. Please don’t be angry with me for getting decapitated by the French. Please don’t be angry with me for letting the Nazis get away with rare books of prophecy. Oh, and getting killed again._

“Lousy sort of night, right?” Crowley muttered.

The doors fell open for him.

Faustus Blackwood and a crowd of angry Satanic teachers stood in their way.

Aziraphale instinctively fell back, behind Crowley. The demon stopped for a moment on the threshold, eyeing Blackwood, and then sneered, sauntering forwards. “Faustus. You must have hurried back. Long night. Could have taken a personal day.”

“You mock me, demon.”

“Yeah, but you love it, though.”

The priest’s nostrils flared. Satanist or not, he looked like he desired nothing more than to tie Crowley to a stake in the middle of the nearest field and light the fire himself.

Aziraphale, looking past him, noticed to his dismay that the crowd filled much of the school’s main hall. Everyone was clustered beneath that hideous statue. All wore flowing black robes. All glared at him.

“Come along, angel,” Crowley called lazily, not even seeming to see them.

Blackwood stepped in front of him, nearly forcing Crowley to back-up. The demon didn’t move more than to twitch an eyebrow, though, and it was the priest who ended up stumbling.

“ _No_!” Blackwood gathered himself, turning to gesture to the assembled teachers. “No, Crowley Spellman, we will not allow you to continue to put our venerable institution – and might I add home to many of our more vulnerable children of the night – in immortal danger.”

Sunglasses or not, Aziraphale thought it was obvious to everyone that Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Oh, get off, Faustus. I am still the headmaster here, am I not?”

Blackwood’s lips curled sharply downwards. “You are _for now_ ,” he said. “As our Dark Lord wills it, so may it be. But that does _not_ mean you are allowed to give that creature free reign.” He jabbed a finger at Aziraphale. “To terrorize our children. He attacked three orphan girls last night –”

“I think you mean _they_ attacked him.”

“Are you blind, man?” Blackwood spat. “He is actively seeking to undermine our teachings! He’s scarcely been here a week, and already converting our children into the teachings of the false god.”

“It’s true! He’s been speaking to the children,” one of the other teachers chimed in. “I’ve heard them all, whispering about the angel. Who knows what he’s filling their heads with?”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. The crowd had swallowed them now and he was surrounded by dozens of angry, accusing eyes. _No,_ he wanted to say. _The children are just lonely, scared. Bullied._ But his mouth was glued shut. They weren’t likely to listen to the words of an angel, anyway. Worst of all, he wondered what Crowley would think. The demon was turned away from him, facing down Blackwood.

“When the Dark Lord gave you the angel, I’m sure this isn’t what he had in mind. Perhaps until you can break him in properly, he should be kept contained. In the dungeon.”

_Dungeon._

Aziraphale shifted closer to Crowley. He found he couldn’t look at the sea of angry faces anymore. They were swimming together. He stared at the floor, the interlocking panel of pentagrams. _Dungeon._ He swallowed. Thoughts of the Bastille _– thick stone walls, heavy iron manacles, the stench -_

“The dungeon . . .” Crowley repeated, sounding disinterested, like he maybe didn’t know what Blackwood was talking about.

_The sounds of the guillotine – the heavy slide of the blade, ratcheting down the quivering wooden frame. The thick smell of the blood already staining the platform. Again, angry crowds, yelling, screaming, snarling. It had all been a mistake. A stupid, foolish mistake._

“The witch’s cell!” Blackwood thundered. “Where the Greendale Thirteen were held. Where so many more perished!”

_. . . Please . . ._ his heart was pounding. He felt lightheaded. _Please, Crowley . . ._

“Oh. Oh, right.” Crowley glanced over his shoulder, but Aziraphale couldn’t even tell, through the shades, if he looked directly at him, or not. If he cared at all.

He held his breath. _Please._

Crowley shrugged, turning back to Blackwood and the crowd. “Yeah,” he said.

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Throw him in the dungeon. What do I care?”

* * * * *

“So, who is he?”

Crowley groaned. He had been sprawled on one of the sofas in what was technically the waiting room for Hilda and Zelda’s customers. But no one was coming in requesting funeral arrangements, and he was basking in a nice patch of sunlight pouring in through the window. It felt so good to just _stop_ for a second.

So of course his teenage daughter had to come in and thrown a pillow at his face.

“Who’s who?”

She shoved his legs out of the way and sat down next to him on the couch. “The angel. Aziraphale. Who is he? How come you know an angel? Why did he help us?”

“Hrk. No. Sleep now, talk later,” he pulled the pillow over his face.

“But isn’t it kind of . . . unusual? For one of them to help one of us?”

“Hmm.”

“Is he your friend? How did you meet him? How long have you known him?”

“ _A week_ ,” he groaned, muffled by the pillow.

“And he was willing to come out to the trial?”

“ _Crowley_ . . .”

He lowered the pillow a quarter of an inch, to see Hilda standing on the other side of the room, gazing at them. “You should tell her,” she said, not ungently.

He pulled a face.

Sabrina was immediately laser-focused on him. Even more intent than before. “Tell me what?”

“It’s . . .” okay, he couldn’t say it was _nothing_. But . . . “it’s complicated.”

Hilda sighed. “She’s not a child anymore. And you can’t pretend this isn’t happening. He’s in our lives now, isn’t he?”

Settling back into the couch, stubbornly crossing his arms, Crowley huffed. “. . . doesn’t have to be.”

Sabrina looked from her aunt, back to him, frowning. “Dad . . . what is it? What’s going on?”

He let his head fall back, before looking over at her tiredly.

“Are you . . . are you keeping secrets from me? _Now?_ After everything? _Seriously_?” she jumped up off the couch, spinning around to face him directly. “I can’t believe you! We almost died! And now we’re keeping secrets! Is that what kind of family we are? Really?!”

It was the pain in her eyes and in her voice that did it. He slowly sat up, unfolding. He took the sunglasses off.

She fell silent, but she kept looking at him. Pleading with her eyes. _Tell me._

“Downstairs . . . Hell . . . and Heaven. They made a deal. A truce,” his voice was rough. “But one of _us_ had to marry one of _them_.” He paused, watching the interplay of emotions cross her face – surprise that he would mention Hell, a topic that was normally strictly off-limits between them, then confusion, then slowly her eyes grew wide in understanding.

“You . . .”

“It wasn’t my choice! And if I didn’t do it, they wouldn’t have let me come home for your Dark Baptism –”

“You got married _. You. Got. Married._ You got _married_ and you didn’t tell me?!”

“It ended the war! It’s not . . . it’s not a big . . . it doesn’t have to be a big -”

“You have a _secret angel husband_! You got re-married. It’s _kind of a big deal_ , Dad.”

Crowley grimaced. “No.”

“How could you not tell me?!” she turned to Hilda. “Did _you_ know?”

“Uh . . .” Hilda’s expression was plainly guilty.

“ _Did_ you?! Oh my God. And Auntie Z, she knows too? Any other secret family members I don’t know about? Is Auntie Z secretly married to a mermaid?”

“Oh, darling, I’m sure your father was going to tell you. It’s just, with all this business with your baptism, and the Dark Lord . . .”

“Save it, Auntie,” Sabrina stormed off, slamming every door on her way to her room.

Crowley winced.

Hilda winced back in sympathy. “Well . . . she didn’t take it _that_ badly, considering.”

Five seconds later, he heard Sabrina’s feet stomping back down the stairs. She stomped over to him and stood in front of the couch, hands on her hips, glaring a glare that would have made Beelzebub jealous.

He swallowed. “Wh-what?”

“You’re a jerk and I’m really mad at you.”

They stared at each other.

“So, where is he?”

“Wh . . . “

“Where. Is. Aziraphale. Your secret new husband. That you married to end the war. And then I met him, and you didn’t even tell me who he was. And then you whisked him away.”

“We-ll . . . the thing . . . the thing about . . .”

“You said he’s staying at the school? The academy?”

“Not . . . exactly.”

* * * * *

Sabrina loved her dad. She did. But right now she really couldn’t believe the shit she was hearing from him.

When he took his sunglasses off, she knew he was being serious. He rarely even took them off in the privacy of their own home, and never in public. She knew he didn’t like how his eyes looked – golden snake eyes – but they’d never frightened her. They looked at her now, wide and strangely sad, like he was asking for understanding. But this was a bit beyond understanding.

“ _What_?” she didn’t even mean for that one word to come out as harshly as it did. She didn’t even mean to start shouting, but then she was. “You _married_ him, and then you got him to _help_ me, and then _you locked him in a dungeon_?”

Crowley looked miserable, slouched on the sofa, elbows on his knees, staring up at her. She almost felt bad - but then she reminded herself of the soft-spoken Englishman who had helped her through her trial and shielded her with his wings. Who had been so quiet on their ride back, but had smiled at her. He seemed normal. Nice. And her dad just threw him in a dungeon somewhere?

“Dad, I can’t believe I have to say this: but that _is not_ okay!”

“I agree with Sabrina,” Hilda looked equally shocked by the dungeon revelation, so Sabrina guessed she wasn’t in the know about _that_ secret, at least. “That poor man. Oh, Crowley, how could you? He seemed so sweet!”

Crowley looked from one to the other of them. “It’s – look, it’s not like he’s a _human_ , alright? Or even a warlock. He’s an _angel_ , Sabrina. Hilda. He’ll be fine. He has powers. Celestial . . . ethereal . . . stuff. He’ll be fine. It’s fine.”

“ _Dad_. It’s not the middle ages. You can’t just throw . . . your husband . . . in a dungeon cell!”

“No, please, just listen to me. Aziraphale is an angel. It’s not like if I threw you, or your Aunt Hilda into a dungeon. He can create anything he wants in there. He doesn’t even need spells or – or ingredients. He can make it look like . . . like the bloody Ritz, I dunno. Or he can just escape. The witch’s cell isn’t designed to keep _angels._ Super easy for him to get out. Soon as he tries it, he’ll see, he can pop right out of there and be on his merry way. Best thing for everybody, really.”

She stared at him, hands on her hips. “And do you _know_ he’s going to do any of those things?”

“Well, of course he bloody is! He’s not just going to sit there in the dark with the ghosts, is he?”

“So, you’re going to go check on him, right?”

“I don’t need to check on him, he’s fine.”

“So check on him!”

“No!” Crowley stood up, finally, flinging the couch pillow away with more force than necessary. “He’s fine! Trust me, okay? I wouldn’t hurt the stupid angel. It’s just a stupid witch’s cell! He can miracle it into the Shangri-La, or walk out the door, or teleport away. No one’s going to hurt him in there. It’s fine.”

Sabrina shook her head. “Unbelievable.” Turning on her heel, she nearly collided with Zelda, who was standing in the doorway.

“What in the world is going on in here?”

“Oh, not much, Dad just locked his secret angel husband in a dungeon and threw away the key!”

Zelda shook her head at Crowley. “ _Really,_ brother.”

Crowley threw his hands up. “YOU were the one who suggested looking him in the crypt in the first place!”

“And have you no thoughts of your own?” Zelda demanded. “Honestly, upon meeting the poor creature, it became clear he was harmless. Besides . . .” she sniffed, “he helped your daughter in her hour of need.”

“ _He’s. Fine_.”

Sabrina and her aunts shared a glance with one another.

Sabrina loved her Dad. But sometimes he was an idiot.

* * * * *

Because she was still enrolled at Baxter High – Human School, as her Dad called it – Sabrina had to wait until the weekend before finding time to make her way to the Academy of Unseen Arts. It was just as well the Dark Lord was insisting she begin taking classes there, or she was worried her Dad might actually try to keep her away. He stressed all week that the angel had “power,” that the angel was _fine_. She thought he might even believe that. But. Yeah, right. 

She didn’t care how many powers you had, no one wanted to be thrown in the dungeon. Especially not by their partner, weird supernatural political marriage, not withstanding. Besides. He seemed nice.

_In the desecrated church, with that demon snarling at her, and the flies shooting towards her face – Aziraphale’s wings enfolded her gently, like a thick, feathery curtain. “Don’t worry,” he’d told her. “Your father loves you very much. He won’t let anything happen to you, I’m sure of it.”_

Following the old train tracks eventually led her to what looked – to mortal eyes – like an abandoned, overgrown railway station. The structure was over one hundred years old, with imposing black stone walls. It was impossible to see within, the windows darkened and boarded up and overgrown by vines. The grass between the tracks was long and wild, and the area seemed desolate – if you didn’t know a couple hundred witches and warlocks were living and going to school behind those walls.

She’d been to the academy a few times, visiting her dad. But she’d always wanted to return to “real” school and “real” life with her mortal friends. Even now, after everything that had happened at her baptism and at the church during her trial, she felt like she couldn’t tell her father or her aunts the real reason she was coming to the school (in addition to finding Aziraphale) was to learn how bind and banish the Dark Lord once and for all.

Try to kill her family? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Sabrina wandered the halls with a sense of purpose. She’d never explored the school thoroughly on any of her previous visits. She knew there was a dungeon, but not how to access it.

The dining hall was a large space, far more lavish than the cafeteria at Baxter High, with long wooden tables and real silverware. The stone walls were decorated with red curtains and dangling iron lanterns. As she walked by, students whispered. Some mocked her for being half-human, others respected her because her dad was the headmaster. And, well, the Serpent of Eden. No one tried to stop her going anywhere.

The Weird Sisters sat at one of the tables. They glared at her when they saw her approach. The girls wore their identical dramatic eyeshadow and sharp black lipstick.

“Finally decided to join us, half-mortal?” Prudence sneered.

“Prudence. Dorcas. Agatha,” she looked at the girls. She didn’t exactly _like_ the Weird Sisters, but they knew everything there was to know about the school. “Where’s the witch’s cell?”

At least she had the satisfaction of watching the smirk fall right off Prudence Night’s face.

* * * * *

_This has all been a mistake._

He remembered pleading with his captors at the Bastille. _It’s all just a terrible misunderstanding. I’m not even meant to be here – just popped over for the crepes._

There’s no one even to plead with here. He’s not manacled, but he doesn’t really need to be. Crowley put him here, and he has promised to obey.

The witch’s cell is beneath the academy. He finds it odd that the Satanists built their orphanage and school atop a place where thirteen of their number were tortured and held before their execution. Although, according to the children – who had all been terrified of being in this very predicament – many more witches and warlocks died within the dank cellar-like walls. Never even to have that one final glimpse of sky on their long march to the hanging tree.

Of course, it wasn’t like Aziraphale would die. He would be hungry, but he wouldn’t starve. He would be cold, but he wouldn’t catch a chill. He would simply . . . exist. Alone. In this small windowless, lightless absent space.

_And it does absolutely no good at all,_ he told himself, t _o whinge about being lonely, when you could just as easily be tortured right now._ Perhaps the demon had even thought he was being kind. After all, a better angel wouldn’t mind solitude. A better angel would be content, perhaps even impressed by the ascetic nature of solitary confinement. It was monkish, in its way. He could be devoted to prayer. If he still prayed.

But Aziraphale never prayed. After all, _She_ might answer. And if Gabriel and Sandalphon and all the other angels were horribly disappointed with him, and if even _the demon_ didn’t want a thing to do with him, he couldn’t bear to think about what _She_ would have to say.

_If I was a better angel . . ._

Aziraphale sat on the icy ground – hard packed earth that felt like stone. The walls were rough rock, overgrown with roots. He had miracled a few small candles, but that was all. Their flickering light didn’t exactly make him feel better, though. Somehow, illuminating the rock walls of his narrow cell only reinforced how doomed he was. With the lights extinguished, left in complete and total dark, he could almost pretend he was just . . . sleeping.

But sleep wouldn’t come in this place. It was haunted, and though an angel didn’t have much cause to fear restless spirits, it was impossible to feel comfortable there. He was bothered by faint sounds of weeping, of people who had begged and pleaded, like he had begged and pleaded in France hundreds of years ago. Presumably with as little luck.

For a while, he waited for a substantial spirit to manifest – perhaps he could even guide one into the light? However, he began to realize that all that was left were impressions – pain, anguish, despair – branded into the very air that hung around him. There was no food or water, but something somewhere was dripping, just out of reach.

Aziraphale sighed. 

_If I was a better angel, none of this would matter. If I was a better angel, I would be glad not to suffer the company of demons and witches. If I was a better angel, I would be using this time to devote myself to the Almighty in prayer. If I was a better angel, I wouldn’t be wishing that Crowley would return, even just for a second._ But no matter how long he waited, Crowley did not reappear. Nobody entered the cell or, as far as he could tell, even approached its door.

And why should they? Unlike a human or warlock prisoner, they didn’t need to worry about keeping him alive. _You should just be thankful . . ._ yet, it was so hard to be thankful.

In the cell, in the darkness, time had no meaning. Aziraphale drifted back to dreaming about his shop, the bookstore in London. All of his beloved books. He tried to picture it in his mind – the shelves and stacks. The tables he had arranged just so. He imagined running his fingers along the spines of each volume. What had been in this shelf, that? Oscar Wilde – oh, his beautiful first editions!

. . . and after that night, during the Blitz, Gabriel had made him watch while they incinerated it.

It still hurt.

_Silly old angel, weeping over paper and ink . . ._

If Crowley would only come back and speak to him . . . he hadn’t seemed cruel, not that first night – Aziraphale remembered the feeling of the demon’s hand against his back, holding him down firmly, but not hurting him.

But what would he say? He had even less time for Aziraphale’s nonsense than Gabriel. He imagined Gabriel standing there, in the dark cell. He wouldn’t sneer – angels didn’t sneer. He would shine – white and cold as a glacier. Gabriel would smile, that hard, unyielding, vicious smile. The smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The smile that was all teeth. And say, _“see, Aziraphale, you’ve gone and fucked up again.”_

* * * * *

“You want to rescue the angel?” Prudence asked. She arched one perfect eyebrow, looking half-amused, half-disbelieving. 

“Sure,” Sabrina just looked back at her, fighting to keep her face cool and impassive. “What’s the matter? You’re not scared, are you?”

“. . . of the angel?” Prudence asked, she nearly purred, sliding closer to Sabrina, pushing her up against the wall. She leant on one arm, smiling widely. “Or of you? Little snake?”

“I thought I was the half-breed.” Sabrina eyed the other girl carefully.

Prudence smirked, slowly pulling back. “Everyone is talking about how your father talked the Dark Lord into keeping you in the coven . . . and you haven’t even signed His book. I don’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed.”

“So, will you help me?”

Prudence smiled at her, inscrutable.

* * * *

The cell was cold and dark. Sabrina was horrified. No light – no windows, no warmth, not even a chair or a bed. When the heavy iron door swung open, it took her eyes a moment to adjust – but the angel, Aziraphale, was so light he was nearly glowing in the darkness.

He looked up at her in complete shock, his eyes wide and wet – like he had been crying. She felt her heart twist. “. . . Aziraphale?”

“Sabrina? I – wh – ” he stood up, dusting off his ridiculous, old-fashioned jacket. “My dear, are you supposed to be here?”

She noticed that Prudence and her sisters hung back, well away from the door. _Not afraid of the angel, my ass,_ she thought, smirking a little. Turning back to Aziraphale, she shook her head. “Come on, let’s go.”

“What . . . leave?” he laughed a nervous, strangled little laugh. “I . . . your father . . . I, well I just can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? It’s awful in here,” she took a step forwards and was surprised to see the angel shuffle back. Like he was somehow afraid of her. But that couldn’t be right. Sabrina frowned. “You helped me during my trial. Let me help you now. Come on, the door’s open, we can just go.”

Aziraphale looked at her like he _wanted_ to believe her. Like he _wanted_ to leave. But something was holding him back. His brow was creased in worry. “It’s not that simple,” he said quietly. His eyes sank to the floor. “I – I made a promise. And your father – he already doesn’t like me . . . and I . . .”

“You don’t have to do what my dad says. He’s an idiot.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true!” he was wringing his hands now.

Sabrina stared at him in disbelief. Was he seriously not going to leave? He looked so sad, with dust settling in his white-blond curls and on his jacket. He was pale and his eyes kept slipping away from hers. Around them, the air was chill and damp. A sound like wind, or whispering kept running through the walls. It made Sabrina’s skin crawl. She couldn’t leave him in a place like this. “Do you really want me to leave you here? All alone?” she asked.

“Oh. I . . .” Aziraphale looked at her. “You . . . you should. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sabrina took another step towards him, noticing that he flinched when she reached for his hand. “Aziraphale. Aziraphale, hey . . . Why are you apologizing?” she asked softly.

“Sabrina!” Prudence whisper-yelled across the cell. She looked back. “We have to leave!”

She bit her lip, glancing back at the despondent angel, alone in the dark. She didn’t want to just abandon him. Dad had promised he would be alright, but as far as she could see he hadn’t “miracled" any comforts into the cell, and he certainly hadn’t escaped.

Taking a deep breath, she spun around, hurrying back to where Prudence was waiting irritably just outside the door. “ _Prudence_!” she hissed, “I need you and your sisters to do something for me . . .”

* * * * *

That night, Sabrina was sitting on one of the narrow single beds in the girls’ dormitory, in white cotton pajamas.

“Are you sure about this?” Prudence asked her, sitting on the next bed, across from her, one long bare leg curled elegantly beneath her. The Weird Sisters were all dressed in lacy white negligees half-covered by floaty nightgowns. They appeared almost ethereal in the dim lamplight of the dorms.

Sabrina smiled. “I’m sure.”

How strange, to not have the Weird Sisters picking a fight with her. But she needed their help for her plan to work. She was almost certain it would. She really hoped her Dad hadn’t been lying about the angel’s abilities . . .

Agatha, brushing out her long black hair, asked, “why does the angel mean so much to you? Isn’t he your father’s pet?”

Dorcas and Agatha lounged on the beds around them, watching curiously. Sabrina wondered if they knew how obvious it was that they were Prudence’s lackeys.

“He called the angel ‘my angel,’” Agatha continued, staring her dead in the eyes.

Sabrina met her gaze. “They’re married.”

“Ew!” Dorcas gasped.

“Ha . . . I thought I heard some rumour to that affect,” Prudence smiled. “Glad to have confirmation. Your father does have his kinks, doesn’t he?”

“But a demon and an angel . . . wouldn’t they, like, explode?” asked Dorcas, wrinkling her nose.

Prudence glanced at the clock. “It’s time,” she said. “The teachers and staff will be asleep. Your father’s gone home for the night . . .” she raised an eyebrow at her, quirking her lips. “Time to cause trouble?”

“Oh, definitely.”

* * * * *

Aziraphale was tired and hungry. And the cold, hard narrow cell with its constant ghostly whisperings, provided relief for neither. He was surprised that Sabrina had visited him – she seemed like a kind girl. But if Crowley didn’t return, he supposed he was doomed to spend the rest of his (innumerable) days in this forgotten crypt beneath the earth.

So he nearly jumped out of his skin when the heavy iron door groaned open for the second time that day (or was it night now?)

This time, Sabrina was dragged inside by the Weird Sisters – and they threw her roughly to the ground.

He ran quickly to help her up. The poor girl was in her nightclothes and barefoot, shivering.

“What is this, Prudence?” she gasped, staring at the leader of the Weird Sisters.

Prudence smirked, seemingly ignoring Aziraphale altogether. “This is the Harrowing.”

Agatha and Dorcas spread out, surrounding Sabrina, as they had circled around Aziraphale when they had attacked him in Crowley’s office. “Girls, please, what are you doing?” he asked them.

“This doesn’t concern you.”

“It’s a witch tradition.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. Should he interfere? This was his husband’s daughter – yet, he still didn’t want to attack the Weird Sisters and risk seriously injuring them.

Prudence only had eyes for Sabrina. “No sunlight, no water, no food. Most witches held in here went mad. They slit their own throats. They’ll show you terribly things in the dark. Things that will make you go insane.”

Sabrina clung to him. He felt protective of the girl. And a horrible thought came to him – _what if they were only harassing her because earlier she had tried to help him?_

“But you’re a Spellman,” Prudence looked down at Sabrina, seeming to look straight through Aziraphale. But then, he supposed, he hadn’t done much to dissuade them. It had been Crowley, last time, who had curbed their power. “The daughter of the Serpent. You’re not afraid of the dark,” she was clearly mocking her. “Unless you are.” She smirked. “Sweet dreams.”

The girls trailed back out of the cell, moving as swiftly as they had entered. Sabrina leapt from his arms, throwing herself against the door as it slammed shut in her face. “NO! Please! Prudence, please!” she banged on the door. “Let me out! Let me out! Don’t leave me in here! Please!”

Aziraphale felt helpless, watching in horror as the poor girl was locked in. Even a witch couldn’t possibly survive in such a place! How could those sisters be so needlessly cruel? And to one of their own . . . he shook his head. “Sabrina . . . are you alright?” he asked. “What can I do to help?”

She turned to him, and immediately launched herself into his arms. Aziraphale froze. It had been so long since anyone had hugged him. _The poor child . . ._ what was he supposed to do? Crowley had banished him to the cell . . . but surely he wouldn’t want his own child to be trapped here. Of course, Aziraphale knew that he must to do something to help her. “Oh dear, I can’t believe those girls would target you – the daughter of their own headmaster! Aren’t they worried about what he’ll do when he finds out?”

“Uh – nothing scares the Weird Sisters. Besides, they’ve never liked me. But . . . we can escape, can’t we? We don’t need to wait for my dad? He’s gone home for the night – he won’t be back until Monday, and that’s only if he feels like it – so -” she looked at him, her eyes shining.

“I – of course, don’t worry, please don’t worry, I can send you -”

“ _No!_ No, you have to come with me,” she said, gripping his arm tightly.

Aziraphale stared at her. Dread pooled in his gut. _You’re meant to be here. This is what you deserve._ “But . . .” he said weakly. “I can’t . . .”

“Please! You have to . . . um, you have to help me get home. I can’t just go back to the school. They’ll just do something else horrible to me. You have to help me . . . please?” She hesitated for a moment. “I’m sure you could always teleport yourself back, couldn’t you?”

He looked around at the small, horrible cage of a room. Yes, he supposed he could always get the girl to safety, and then return and continue to carry out his duty in imprisonment here . . . If he were strong enough. He shuddered, shoulders slumping. He supposed he would just have to be. It did seem like the best thing to do. He could help Sabrina, and Crowley didn’t even need to know he’d left. He swallowed, nodding slowly.

“All . . . alright,” he extended a hand to her. “Take my hand,” he said quietly.

A moment later, they were standing outside, in the middle of the woods. Sabrina gasped, she let go of his hand, turning and looking up at the dark shapes of the trees around them, and the distant shimmering night sky. The fresh air ran coolly against their skin. Aziraphale took a deep breath, enjoying the absence of the tortured spirits.

Sabrina’s eyes were wide. He noticed that she was shivering, and still barefoot. Hardly pausing to think about it, he miracled up a thick downy jacket and a pair of boots for her.

She took them, laughing delightedly in surprise. “How . . . You did that so easily! So you _do_ have powers! Why were you staying in that cell?” she demanded, hopping as she pulled the boots on.

“I . . .” he looked around them, worried that at any moment a crowd of angry witches and warlocks – or Crowley – were going to materialize out of the shadows. “I really should go back,” he told her.

“What? No. Why? _No_ ,” Sabrina stressed, taking his arm again. “You need to . . . you need to walk me back to town. Because it’s late and it’s dark and you’re not going to leave me all alone in the woods, are you?”

Well . . . no, he supposed he couldn’t very well do that. Aziraphale took another breath of the sweet autumn night air. The woods were dark, but he couldn’t sense anything dangerous nearby. And it was such a relief to be outside, to feel the faint stirrings of the wind and see the first evening stars between the trees.

“I . . . I, yes, well, I’ll take you into town, but . . .” he frowned, looking all around them. Oh, dear. The Greendale woods were quite deep, and though he supposed he could miracle them into town, that might draw some unwanted attention (and he wasn’t sure he could manage it without knowing the way.)

Sabrina only smiled cheerily and struck off in – what seemed to Aziraphale – to be a random direction. “Don’t worry!” she called over her shoulder.

Aziraphale followed, dutifully, but he couldn’t help noticing the girl appeared remarkably at ease in the forest at night, for someone who had just been insisting he stay with her. _She is a witch, after all. I don’t suppose any wild animals would be foolish enough to bother her._ But still, that begged the question of why she wanted his company at all.

“Sorry about my dad, by the way,” she said, “I think he honestly thought you would be fine in that place.”

Oh. Aziraphale looked down as he nearly tripped over a pile of slippery fallen leaves. For all the time he had spent on Earth, he had never been very outdoorsy. A brief constitutional through the park after dinner, perhaps, but a ramble through the woods at night was quite another thing. “. . . you shouldn’t worry about me,” he said, forcing himself to smile, when she looked back at him. It may not have been very convincing, because her expression only clouded further with concern. “Of course I will be quite alright,” he stressed.

“Really?”

“Oh. . . . Oh yes. Tickety-boo.”

That startled a laugh from the girl, and he sagged slightly, relieved. But she turned thoughtful again. “You didn’t look alright.”

He sighed, wondering how much to tell her. The last thing he wanted to do was to dump his own pathetic troubles on this young girl. “I . . . I don’t have a good history with dungeons, I’m afraid.”

“Who does?” 

He smiled. “Quite. But . . .” _I want to be good._ “I need to do as your father says.”

“Why?” Sabrina asked, pushing a thin, twiggy branch aside. “Because you’re married?” 

_Oh? So he told her that much._ Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.

“Don’t you get a say?”

“I am an angel . . .” he said quietly. “I’m bound to serve.” _And wasn’t he? God. Heaven. The archangels. Crowley._ That had been his problem, the last time he had been on Earth, he thought mournfully. He had fallen in love with the human world. With his food and his books, he had lost himself in the often careless world of the mortals, giving scarce thought to the Higher Powers. And now he was paying for it.

“Aziraphale . . . look! Lights!” Sabrina pointed through the trees. They were standing on a small hill, overlooking the town. Greendale was spread out beneath them, a twinkling wash of lights – shop windows, open late, and streetlights, car headlights, it all looked so bright and cheery. Welcoming. But that was the light of Sabrina’s world, not his.

_Oh, now you’re just being maudlin._ Still, he supposed he would have to return to his prison . . .

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sabrina said, as though reading his thoughts. “Have you even seen Greendale?”

“Well . . . not as such, no-”

“I thought so! Aziraphale, you don’t want to go back to the witch’s cell, do you?” she asked, staring at him with eyes that seemed to pierce right through him.

He shivered and wrung his hands, and his gaze kept drifting past her to the inviting lights of the town. It was small – smaller than London had been, even a hundred years ago. But bustling with vibrancy and life. Even from a distance, the angel could feel the teeming emotions of its inhabitants – human beings, and human beings were filled with love. He exhaled softly, eyes shining as he looked down the hill at the glowing, twinkling lights. “Oh . . .”

“It’s late, but Doctor Cee always stays open late on the weekends, so kids can hang out after the movies.” She had already started making her way down the hill, towards those shining lights. They were near a road now. She would find her way. He should go back . . .

“It’s not far,” she continued. “ _Cerberus Books._ It’s this way.”

“. . . books?”

“Yeah. It’s a bookstore. That okay?”

_You’re weak, Aziraphale,_ he heard Gabriel saying in his head. And he was. Longing and obedience warred in his chest.

_I want to go into the town,_ he thought, even though he knew he shouldn’t. But it was right there . . . _what kind of an angel is so easily tempted_? His palms itched. He wavered at the edge of the forest, as though as long as he lingered beneath the branches of the trees he was somehow not disobeying anyone.

* * * * *

Crowley was still at the academy. Normally, he would have gone home by now (he rarely used his rooms at the school) but Sabrina’s words had been hanging over him all week. While he was sure she was overreacting – a powerful celestial being should be fine in what passed for a “dungeon” around here – he probably should . . . just check on him.

Not that he was feeling bad, or guilty, or anything. Of course not! _The angel is probably happy not to be forced to put up with me and all of these warlocks and witches._

After debating with himself for another hour or so, Crowley finally left his office. He knew Sabrina was also visiting the school this weekend, but he didn’t want to become one of those annoying helicopter parents who never gave their kids any space, so he let her be. At least it would please his boss if she finally started taking classes on curses and conjuring.

It was late, and Crowley made his way through the silent school. The boarding students were asleep – or at least in their dorms. The halls were dark, but Crowley didn’t need light to see. He slowly made his way through the pentagram-shaped rooms, interlocking corridors and down flights of narrow stairs. He didn’t feel particularly sentimental about the school – he’d never wanted to be a teacher, and the idea of himself as a headmaster was nothing short of hilarious. Mostly he stayed because it pissed Blackwood off so much. And it kept him in the loop with the coven.

The air grew colder as he descended beneath the earth. As a snake, the cool, dark didn’t bother him. But he found himself wondering, for the first time, how an angel – a being of light – would react. _Maybe . . ._

No, Crowley shook his head. He purposely did not think of the angel’s eyes, when he led him down here. _He’ll be fine. He can miracle anything he wants. He can leave._

But the angel hadn’t exactly tried to escape before, had he? Guilt wormed its way around Crowley’s gut. By the time he reached the cell door, he desperately needed to see that the angel was alright . . .

He paused for a moment, hand resting on the icy door. _Aziraphale will have miracled this into something livable, right?_

The door creaked open at Crowley’s push. The first thing he felt was a horrible wave of despair. The cell was as barren and grim as it ever was – dirty and cramped and cold. “Angel?”

It was also empty.

So, he did leave.

_Well, good. Good on him._

So why did he feel disappointed?

Crowley stumbled back out the door. He felt a headache coming on and slouched against the door frame for a moment. He didn’t know why felt so disconsolate. He knew the angel didn’t want to be there, chained to him by some obscene arrangement their bosses had made. He had been saying all week that the angel would have no trouble escaping, and now that he had . . . it was fine, right? Of course it was fine. Made his life easier, didn’t it? Right? Right. Good. Great.

“You’re a little late, aren’t you?”

His head snapped up. Anathema Device was standing at the end of the narrow corridor, at the base of the stone stairs which led back up to the school proper. She held a lantern in one hand, the flame reflecting off her large round glasses. “Your daughter was here ages ago.”

“ _What_?”

“Mm-hmm. She and the Weird Sisters staged a prison break.”

“Wh . . . why didn’t you stop them?” he sputtered.

“Well, you seemed to have things so well in hand,” she said it evenly, but her lips quirked a little at the corners. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to accidentally talk to the angel. I know how jealous you get.”

His eyes narrowed at her and he nearly hissed. “Device . . .”

She shrugged, not frightened of him in the least. Turning elegantly on her heel, the witch ascended the steps, taking the lantern with her and leaving him in the dark.

* * * * *

_Cerberus Books_ was certainly nothing like his own shop, _A.Z. Fell & Co_., had been . . . from the front sign, which displayed an illustration of the three-headed guard dog of Hades, to the strange red lights circling the windows (“neon,” Sabrina had explained) but here, at least, for the first time in a long time, Aziraphale felt slightly at home. Like most bibliophiles, although Aziraphale had his definite favourites – _Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, the Bronte Sisters, etc._ – he found being surrounded by books in general very comforting. And though the owner clearly had a penchant for more macabre material, it was all interesting. Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t seen _any_ literature since the 1940s, so he couldn’t help but be intensely curious.

A bright blue shelf near the front of the store held comics – the comics he remembered from the 30s had been children’s strips, like _Beano_. But the art on these looked strange, gothic, dreamlike – even grotesque. He was thrilled to find that he didn’t recognize any of the authors on the surrounding shelves. To think – all of the new stories he could read! Aziraphale stopped, biting his lip. _Of course not . . . you are here to do a job,_ he shook himself.

The bookstore contained a café – a charming idea. The furniture was old and mismatched – and in this, it did remind Aziraphale a little, wistfully, of his old home. Sabrina led him over to a pair of worn, comfortable armchairs next to a small round table. “Why don’t we sit here, for a bit?”

“It is very pleasant,” he admitted. “Do you come here often?”

“Yeah, we usually come here after the movies – they do a lot of horror movie marathons at the cinema down the street. And Doctor Cee stays open really late.” She chatted easily, telling him all about her mortal friends, the ordinary human school she went to during the week. It was nice to just sit and listen to her talk about her life and friends. Aziraphale quietly marvelled at how outgoing she was, willing to talk to him as though he really _was_ an old family friend, and not someone she had just met. It made him feel almost like he belonged.

But he didn’t.

And this brief reprieve – sitting in the warmth, in the light, listening to someone talk to him happily – in the end, it wouldn’t mean anything. It was just another way in which he was failing . . .

“. . . Aziraphale?”

He blinked up at her, embarrassed that he had been so rude as to lose track of the conversation. “I - I’m sorry, my dear, you were saying . . .” his throat felt oddly tight.

“Aziraphale . . . you’re crying.”

* * * * *

The angel seemed surprised at his own tears. He jumped a little in his seat, hurriedly wiping them away with an old-fashioned cloth handkerchief. “Oh! I’m sorry! Really, how embarrassing. I’m just an old silly . . . please ignore me.”

Sabrina wished she knew what to say. Crying adults was weird enough, let alone when that adult was really an angel. She thought he had been enjoying Doctor Cee’s – his face had lit up briefly when they entered the bookstore, making him look younger and happier. But now . . . What did she do wrong?

“Uh . . . I’m going to see if I can get us some coffees, okay?” she said. “Wait . . . you’ll wait here, right?” she added, worried he might vanish back to that awful crypt. And she knew, more than ever, that she couldn’t allow that to happen.

Morosely, he nodded, but he was back to not meeting her gaze, fiddling with the handkerchief in his hands – nervously folding and refolding it.

_What happened to him?_

Sabrina hugged her jacket tighter – the jacket he had miracled into existence for her – and made her way over to the coffee bar.

“Sabrina, is that you?”

“Aunt Hilda? What are you doing here? Where’s Doctor Cerberus?”

It was decidedly strange to see one of her aunts in a place like Cerberus’, standing behind the desk, wiping down the counters “Oh, Doctor Cee’s about, he’s just taking a break. I thought I might try something a bit different,” Hilda smiled at her conspiratorially. “A part-time job. Zelda’s furious.”

Sabrina laughed. “That’s great.”

“But what are you doing out so late? I know it’s a Saturday night, but I thought you were going to the academy this weekend? And . . .” Hilda blinked at her niece, frowning, “are you in your pajamas?”

“I was, at the academy, I mean, but . . .” she glanced back over towards the seating area. “Look, I broke Aziraphale out. I _had_ to!” she insisted, at her aunt’s shocked expression. “Dad had him locked in this horrible little prison cell!”

“And you brought him _here_?” Hilda was already hurrying out from behind the counter, bustling and fidgeting.

“Don’t be mad –”

“I’m not _mad_ , my darling, it’s just – I mean, have you spoken to your dad –”

“Of course not! You heard him, all week he’s been saying _‘the angel’s fine.’_ He’s _not_ fine, Aunt Hilda. _Please_ –”

Hilda bit at her bottom lip. “Oh, I don’t know - I don’t know – We _should_ tell your father –” she made her way briskly over to the tables.

Aziraphale, looking up at them approach, visibly paled. “Oh, you’re . . .” he trembled. “Please don’t . . . don’t tell Crowley . . . I . . . I shouldn’t have –”

He looked so upset, Sabrina was worried that he was going to start to cry again.

Behind her, she heard Hilda’s soft gasp. “Oh, you poor lamb,” she murmured under her breath. A second later, all thoughts of calling Crowley were apparently forgotten, as Hilda plucked a fleece throw off the back of one of the loveseats and draped it around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “There, there, you don’t need to be afraid of us. We’re family now, aren’t we?”

Aziraphale looked up at her as though dazed. Sabrina could see the worry, the weariness and anxiety all plainly etched on his face. “But . . . he told me to stay.”


	9. Welcome to the Family

Crowley was mad. He wasn’t entirely certain why he was so mad – _the angel left! He wanted the angel to leave! He didn’t! Sabrina had gone behind his back!_ \- And where were the two of them now? What was going on?

He nearly crashed the Bentley several times on the drive back into town – but the vehicle was so infused by demonic energy by this point that it practically drove itself, and wasn’t about to let Crowley smash nose-first into a ravine. He was so irritated he couldn’t concentrate. He felt like he was losing control over everything – Hell, the War, his family, his job – he used to be good at this shit!

_Where are they? Where. Are. They?!_

He jumped out of the car as soon as he arrived at the house, slamming the door and practically leaping up the front steps, his long legs taking them two at a time. He didn’t think he was being _that_ noisy – until he flung the front door open and Zelda met him in the doorway, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. Though to be fair, Zelda’s default expression was severely unimpressed – she was like a cat, that way.

“Sister.”

“Crowley.”

“Are they here?”

“They are.”

“Ugh!” he practically growled, attempting to move past her – and Zelda’s arm shot out, barring his way. For a moment he was stunned, staring at her dumbly. “Wh-”

“Oh no,” she said. “You’re not barging in here like this.”

“Like what?” he snarled.

Her eyebrows lifted ever-so slightly and she looked down her nose at him, unmoved. “In an utter snit.”

Zelda pushed him back a step, and followed onto the porch, pulling the door shut softly behind her. Crowley’s head was spinning. Zelda was _always_ on his side. And she was one of Downstairs fiercest advocates. She didn’t even approve of Sabrina having human friends; she certainly wouldn’t put up with angels. An angel. His angel.

Would she?

“Close your mouth, you look like a fish,” she told him, slowly pacing the length of their front deck. She gazed out into the night. The wind was loud. A storm was coming; he could feel it. That harsh chill in the air, promising winter. Zelda gripped the railing tightly, as though steeling herself to face him. But her voice, when she spoke, was icy calm. “If you storm in there, in such a state, you’ll only frighten them.”

He glanced at the front door. She wasn’t blocking his way anymore, but . . . Crowley sighed, joining his sister at the railing of the deck, sucking in a lungful of the damp night air. He looked out over the smattering of distant frost-coloured stars. He didn’t like looking at the stars too often – he ached.

“Sabrina knows better than to be afraid of me,” he muttered.

“And Aziraphale?”

“Why would he . . .”

“Just admit it, the angel isn’t what you thought he would be. No flaming sword. No admonitions from the false god.”

“You . . . you’re taking the angel’s side?” he snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “ _You_ , Zelda Fiona Spellman? On the side of the angels?”

“Not angel _s_ ,” she scowled. She held a cigarette aloft, poised elegantly as always in her gold cigarette ring. He lit it for her with a tiny demonic miracle. The cherry end flamed in the dark. “I admit it’s unorthodox,” she said, “but he _did_ save Sabrina. And you agreed to this in the first place, when you went ahead with the marriage. So I won’t have you storming in there, acting like a cad, now.”

“I . . .” he turned around, leaning his back against the rail and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

Zelda blew out a thin column of smoke, glancing at him. “Of course not,” she said. “But you clearly haven’t been paying attention. Aziraphale is terrified of displeasing you.”

Crowley blinked, crossing his arms and slouching. He felt that headache coming on again. He felt like he was several pages behind everyone else – or maybe reading from a different book entirely. “Because I’m a demon?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He sighed.

They stood that way, in the dark, for a few more minutes, Zelda smoking, him breathing deeply and telling himself not to barge in like a tyrant. That had never been his style, anyway, and hearing that the angel was actually afraid of him had effectively deflated what bluster he had.

Still, this was going to be a long night.

Ten minutes later, they went inside.

Aziraphale looked up when he and Zelda entered the living room. He’d been sat on the couch, between Hilda and Sabrina, and bundled in blankets. Crowley would have been tempted to say they were overdoing it – except that the angel’s face looked utterly haunted. He was ashen and weary, and seemed to grow smaller the closer Crowley got – cringing back into the upholstery.

Crowley stopped well away, giving space. _Did I cause this?_ he wondered. Whatever he’d been planning to say died in his throat. So he stood there awkwardly, on the edge of the rug, hesitating.

Hilda was shooting him worried glances, and that stung. She couldn’t truly believe that he would hurt Aziraphale. He watched while she patted the angel’s knee, before standing and moving between them. Like she needed to be a buffer. Like Crowley was going to drag Aziraphale back to the academy by his hair.

“You can’t take him back,” she said.

Sabrina, still sitting by Aziraphale, regarded Crowley, her eyes dark with concern. She didn’t say anything at all, and that was worse.

Zelda had been right to pull him aside. They all thought he was a monster. “I . . .” he cleared his throat. “I just don’t understand,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “You could have transformed that dungeon into a five-star hotel. I didn’t put you in there to torment you. I just thought . . . Blackwood would leave you alone. They would all leave you alone. I thought it was good.”

It wasn’t helping. Whatever he was saying clearly wasn’t helping. The angel looked close to tears. “I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

And why the fuck was he apologizing?

Sabrina put her hand on the angel’s back. “Aziraphale. Hey, it’s okay,” she said softly. She was trying to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at any of them.

“Oh . . .” Hilda sighed. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? A nice cuppa, that’s what we need.”

Crowley followed her into the kitchen, mostly because he couldn’t stand to be in that room anymore – couldn’t stand to look at the frightened angel, at his daughter who was handling this with such compassion and grace, or even at Zelda, who was observing them all so coolly. He felt like they were all judging him and he was failing. He nearly trod on Hilda’s heels in his hurry to retreat.

The kitchen was familiar. Safe. Their mint-green, chipped cupboards. The wooden cutting boards. His plants. He stopped by some aloe vera that wasn’t growing quite right and considered yelling at it, but hadn’t the enthusiasm.

Hilda took out an old iron kettle, filling it with water from the sink. He couldn’t tell if she was ignoring him because she was mad or disappointed, or if she was just doing the typical Hilda thing and bustling around, being charmingly domestic in the midst of chaos. 

“I’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t I?” Crowley muttered, leaning against the centre island. After a moment, he slipped his glasses off, playing with them idly.

Hilda glanced at him and her expression softened. She smiled at him – a quick smile that transformed into a grimace. “A soothing chamomile, I think that would be best,” was all she said, before turning to their jars of loose tea leaves.

He stared at the kettle, waiting for it to boil, as though it could answer his questions. He had a lot. “So what happens now? Does he just live here? With us?”

“Well, he is your,” she giggled, “your _husband_ now, isn’t he?”

If she was laughing about it, hopefully that meant she wasn’t angry. “But I’m a scary demon, right?” he saw his reflection in the glass, scowled and put his sunglasses firmly back into place. “He won’t be happy here.”

“Oh, I think we’re less scary than a haunted prison cell,” she said, taking out their teapot – a hideous Victorian thing covered in pink flowers – and five china cups.

“Angels don’t eat or drink mortal food,” he told her. “I’ve never met one who didn’t think it was downright gross.”

Hilda looked at him and the smile slowly faded off her lips. She reached for the fifth cup, but then apparently changed her mind again, and left it. “Why don’t you let him decide that, hmm, love? Get the milk out for me?”

Crowley went to the fridge. “I’m right, though,” he said. “I’m sure I’m right.”

_Like you were sure he’d be fine in the cell?_

Zelda would have said it. Hilda was too nice, though, she only hummed and fussed with arranging the sugar bowl and a little porcelain milk pitcher on the tray. She put the tea leaves in the pot, and the kettle went off. Crowley had gone back to shifting from foot to foot, uncomfortable as if he’d been standing on holy ground. And why the Heaven was he feeling so nervous? “Tell me this is weird for you, too,” he said. “Come on, Hildy, I’m . . . I’m having a moment here.”

“ _Crowley_ . . .” she looked exasperated, pouring the boiling water into the teapot. She carefully placed the lid on and added it to the tray. “Here, you take that in.”

“. . . Fine. But I’m telling you, angels don’t drink tea.”

* * * * *

Aziraphale couldn’t stop shivering. Really, having a body was just troublesome at times. His hands were numb. Crowley was mad at him for _not_ using miracles. No matter what he did, it was always the wrong thing. Had he been stupid, to not see what Crowley was doing when he put him in the witch’s cell? And, more importantly, was the demon going to make him go back there?

Even if he was allowed, or even expected, to miracle that grim place into something more comfortable, Aziraphale didn’t think he would _ever_ be able to forget where he was . . . sealed beneath the earth, where so many poor souls had been driven mad and tortured and died.

Sabrina kept assuring him he wouldn’t have to go back, but Aziraphale was aware that it wasn’t, ultimately, up to the girl. Crowley didn’t want him here. Crowley seemed to hate him completely. He wasn’t even worth torturing. And this meant he had failed the archangels, as well. What if Crowley decided to call off the entire arrangement? _Could_ he? And how much trouble would Aziraphale be in, in that case? The very thought made his stomach turn.

_What do I do?_ He shivered violently beneath the blanket that Hilda Spellman had kindly put over his shoulders. _So much for not being able to catch a chill . . ._ he thought miserably. He was also very hungry, but he’d been hungry for such a long time that it was familiar pain, almost part and parcel with his corporeal form.

It hadn’t been very long – not nearly enough time for Aziraphale to compose himself – before Crowley and Hilda came back into the room. Crowley was holding a silver tea tray, which he set gingerly down on the coffee table between them. He hesitated for a moment, like he wanted to say something, but then shrugged and turned away, starting a fire in the hearth. He did it the human way, not bothering with his powers – perhaps just to have something to do. Perhaps it was better than being in Aziraphale’s company.

He tugged weakly at the corner of the blanket thrown over him, wishing he could fight off this chill. Hilda poured the tea, passing a cup to Zelda, then Sabrina. “Ummm . . .” she hesitated, looking at Aziraphale. “Would you care for a cup of tea, love?”

_Gabriel despised human food. It wasn’t seemly for an angel to partake. And Crowley had gotten so angry at Anathema, when she had brought it to him, before . . ._ but he looked at the cup of tea longingly. He couldn’t seem to say anything.

Sabrina past him her untouched tea. “Here, take this one,” she said.

And so he found himself holding a cup anyway. The warmth of it was wonderful against his skin, seeping through his frozen hands. And the smell rising up from the steaming cup . . . he breathed it in deeply. “Oh. Thank you,” he said quietly.

Zelda sat in one of the wingback chairs across from them, back straight. “Very well. Since you are going to be living with us from now on, I think it only appropriate to lay down some ground rules – first of all, this house is dedicated to the Dark Lord and all his infernal majesty, and I’ll hear no proselytizing of your false god under this roof.”

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley still hadn’t said anything about him staying, but he didn’t object when Zelda started speaking. He risked a glance in the direction of the fireplace. The fire was blazing, and Crowley turned to face them, but didn’t bother sitting in one of the chairs, sprawling instead on the ground. He was frowning, but he didn’t say anything. Secondly, Aziraphale knew they were Satanists, obviously, but Crowley – the Serpent – must have been there in the beginning, and seen God create Eden, and Earth, so calling _Her_ the “false god” seemed a bit much. But he chose not to object. Besides, he wasn’t much for proselytizing, anyway.

“Secondly,” Sabrina said, interrupting her aunt, “Aziraphale is _family_ , so we’re going to treat him like it, right?”

“Honestly, Sabrina, these were meant to be rules for the angel, not us,” said Zelda.

“Well, do you have any other rules for angel?” asked Hilda.

“No other angels in the house,” she said, after thinking for a moment. “One is enough.”

Aziraphale didn’t suppose she had much cause to worry on that front. He thought of the way Gabriel, Michael and the others had collectively vanished from the church directly after the ceremony, and doubted that any of them was about to pop ‘round for a visit. He nodded, taking a sip of tea. It tasted so good – silky and sweet, with notes of apple and honey. And it was warm. He felt it spread through him. Soothing. He drank again, more deeply. And realized that everyone was staring at him. He lowered the cup shakily, feeling a blush spreading across his cheeks and they all quickly looked away.

Zelda continued, planning: “now, our nephew, Ambrose, has been living in the guest room – but, as he’s travelling at the moment, I suppose-”

Crowley, who had been silent throughout the conversation, suddenly spoke up, “angels don’t need to sleep.”

Zelda and Hilda both turned to him, Zelda arching one eyebrow, while Hilda sighed and muttered, “seriously?” He couldn’t tell if this meant they were irritated with him, or Crowley.

Beside him, Sabrina crossed her arms, looking pointedly at her father. “Are you sure?”

“Ye-es. Well,” he made a face. “Come on! The whole ‘virtue never sleeps!’ I _must_ be right about that one.”

The others shifted their gaze to him, questioningly. Aziraphale focused on his tea. Technically, Crowley was, of course, correct – angels didn’t “need” sleep, in the same way that they didn’t “need” food or water. Even when he’d been living on Earth, he had often chosen to forgo sleep, in favour of spending those hours reading, but he wasn’t immune to feelings of tiredness, and sometimes sleep was just . . . pleasant and refreshing.

The silence in the Spellman living room stretched on, and Aziraphale blushed again, realizing they were all, for some reason, waiting for his response.

Crowley tilted his head to one side, looking up at him from his place on the floor. “Well, tell them!” he said, “tell them angels don’t need sleep.”

Aziraphale jumped. “O-of of course,” he said quickly, aware of Crowley’s eyes on him, and that he had just been given a direct order, “angels don’t need to sleep. Q-quite right.”

Sabrina frowned, watching him, but Hilda clapped her hands and began tidying up the tea things, taking their dirty cups. “Alright then, that’s settled, at least!” she said cheerily. “And good thing too, because I’m afraid Ambrose has left his room a bit of a mess.”

Zelda sighed, standing stiffly. “Well, the rest of us _do_ need our sleep, and it’s half-one already. Come along, Sabrina, up to bed.”

Slowly, Sabrina and her aunts made their way up the stairs, towards the second floor. Leaving Aziraphale. And Crowley.

* * * *

Crowley sighed in relief. At least he was right about _one_ thing! He also suspected Aziraphale had just taken the tea to be polite, which wouldn’t do. He hated the idea of the angel being forced to do things he found disgusting just to make them happy. It was bad enough . . . well, the whole entire situation must be bad enough, from the angel’s point of view, right? Being forced out of Paradise, losing all of his fellow angels, trapped with a bunch of Satanists here on Earth. He knew how most of his kind would feel about that.

And, alright, granted, Crowley had miscalculated with the witch’s cell. He could admit that. He still thought it was a little odd that it had bothered the angel so much, but he could see that he’d been wrong to just assume things would be alright, or that Aziraphale would think of using miracles to make the place nicer. Maybe angels were as bad as most demons when it came to creativity. That made sense, actually. He would just have to keep it in mind, going forwards.

Still, it was going to be odd just having him around their house. And what would Aziraphale _do_ all night while the rest of them were asleep? He thought about showing him the TV, but angels would certainly find Earth stuff tawdry and beneath them. He’d probably want to meditate or pray or something. _Yes,_ thought Crowley, growing certain, Aziraphale would no doubt use those hours to pray. That seemed like a suitably angel thing. Pray for their souls. Pray for the other angels. Compose hosannas in his head to the glory of G- You Know. All that . . . stuff. Great. Settled.

He stood up, yawning and stretching. “Great. Well . . . goodnight.”

Aziraphale _almost_ smiled at him – it was the barest hint of a flicker. He still looked so nervous. And that made Crowley feel like – what had Zelda said? – a cad.

“. . . look, I’m sorry about the witch’s cell,” he said. “I thought . . . . well, doesn’t matter, what I thought. But – err – I didn’t mean –”

The angel was looking at him then, his blue eyes soft and sad and a little bit lovely. Crowley stuttered to a halt.

“Well, goodnight,” Crowley said again, clearing his throat. “If you need anything, I’m at the very top, in the attic. Zelda and Hilda share a room on the second floor. Um, if a goblin runs through here in cat form that’s just Sabrina’s familiar. Oh, and don’t mind about the spiders, they’re Hilda’s pets.”

“Ah. Of course.”

Of course, just like that. Crowley frowned. He expected the angel to complain about _something_ – black cats and spiders, at least.

“I mean. . . all creatures great and small,” the angel added, in a small voice, with that flicker of a smile again, when Crowley continued staring at him.

“. . . Right. Good, well, okay.”

Crowley slowly made his way up the stairs, wondering to himself if Aziraphale could really be as kind-hearted as he appeared. It didn’t line up with Crowley’s experiences with angels – though those had been rather scattered over the millennia. Of course, he had his own memories of the Silver City, before the Fall. He remembered a lot of cold perfection, sneering at the “lower” races, disdain for Her new project (you know, humanity.) The angels he remembered all had self-assurance in spades – they _knew_ they were right and everyone else was wrong. That attitude had been part of the reason he’d been drawn to Lucifer’s clique in the first place – but Aziraphale kept acting in ways contradictory to what Crowley expected. It made his head spin, wondering if it was some elaborate act – though he was beginning to suspect it wasn’t. But why, then, was Aziraphale just different? And what did that mean?

The attic had been miracled to be warmer and better insulated than it should have been – and if it was slightly larger than, technically, the dimensions of the house allowed, well . . . it wasn’t like he invited any humans over who could notice or complain. He had a large, king-size bed up there, with black silk sheets of obscenely high thread count. He sank his feet into a thick Persian rug, after prying off his snakeskin shoes. The Mona Lisa – well, Da Vinci’s rough sketch for her – was hung on the wall. He didn’t have a lot of other knickknacks of his life over the centuries, preferring to let his sisters accumulate their furniture and such. Crowley fell face-first into the bed, exhausted beyond all reason.

And then realized he was far too tired to go to sleep.

* * * * *

Aziraphale trembled with relief, sitting on the couch in the Spellman’s living room. It looked as though he would not be made to go back. He could stay here – he liked the old house. There was a feeling of love about the old building, which he would have been surprised to find in such a place had he not met Sabrina and her aunts. There was indeed a family of rather large spiders living in the walls, but these didn’t bother Aziraphale. And the cat/goblin trotted by at some point during the night, paused and looked at him curiously for a long time, before eventually deciding he wasn’t a threat and hopping up the stairs, presumably to Sabrina’s room.

After he had been left on his own for some time and was feeling more relaxed, Aziraphale stood and explored the room a little more. He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb anything. Atop the fireplace mantle was a framed photograph of a human woman – presumably Sabrina’s mother – and he felt a sharp pang of inadequacy. She was beautiful. Aziraphale knew his own corporeal form was not the human ideal – Gabriel had mentioned it often enough. The archangel had presumably only held off forcing him to change it because God Herself had given it to him back in the days of the Garden. But Gabriel hadn’t liked it and said so often. He probably would have liked this woman – with her long blonde hair and wide smile, laughing brown eyes, and smooth skin. _Well, I am a poor substitute, I’m sorry, Crowley,_ he thought, even knowing that nobody cared if Crowley loved him. That wasn’t the point of the arrangement. But even that made Aziraphale feel a sharp twist of regret. He wanted to please. Crowley, the archangels, God. He wanted to belong. But standing awkwardly in the living room at three in the morning, while the rest of the house slept, he knew that he never would. He wasn’t part of things.

He couldn’t fault Crowley for not wanting him to sleep. Gabriel had certainly never allowed him to sleep, having a never ending series of chores and tasks for Aziraphale to complete. And those rare times Gabriel had been called away on official business, Aziraphale had mostly been too terrified of getting caught to disobey him. Once he had, thinking to take a quick nap and Gabriel had . . . well, it didn’t bare thinking about. How badly he had thrashed him, how long it had taken his corporeal body to recover. Aziraphale shuddered. But the Spellmans hadn’t given him any chores to do. Gabriel would have had a numbered list. But then, there were also things Aziraphale was expected to know, and if he missed them or forgot he was punished for it. Was this that sort of situation? Maybe he should be cleaning the house or . . . but then, what if he _wasn’t_ meant to do that? What if, in attempting to be helpful he overstepped and they didn’t want him touching anything? The anxiety built, swirling in his chest. He was stuck, frozen, unable to move for a second.

Finally, he went back and sat on one of the Spellman’s many couches. Sabrina had explained that her aunts ran the city mortuary and funeral parlor from the house, so they had a lot of seating for clients and their families. It was a nice couch, and Aziraphale finally decided, as they hadn’t told him to do anything specific tonight, he would hope it was okay if he took it easy and he would ask for instruction tomorrow. He hoped that was okay. He was tired, after the week spent in the witch’s cell, listening to the tortured sounds of the dead. He was tired after everything – from the wedding – no, from before that. He was tired from the past eighty years, of being Gabriel’s “secretary” and everything that had followed. A black heavy tide of tiredness kept rising in his skull and he couldn’t push it off any longer. Besides, he reminded himself for the hundred time, _they didn’t tell me to do anything._

He lay down on the couch, pulling the throw blanket over him, closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

* * * * *

Crowley couldn’t sleep. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, tossing and turning. He tried different positions. Could not turn his brain off. He felt bad about the angel. He felt bad about the wedding night and everything that followed, from the Weird Sisters attacking him, to Crowley dragging him into their fight at the church, to Father Blackwood’s rant, to the witch’s cell. He felt bad that he had left it on Sabrina’s shoulders to fix everything. The angel was his responsibility and he wanted to do the right thing, though he didn’t yet know what that was. He should have apologized more for the witch’s cell. Aziraphale had still looked pretty uneasy when Crowley left him downstairs. Crowley sighed, sitting up in bed and running a hand through his hair. He plucked his sunglasses off the side table and threw them on.

_You should have assured him things are going to be alright,_ he told himself, scowling in the dark. _You should have made it clear you wouldn’t be locking him back in the cell, that you wouldn’t hurt him._ _Zelda thinks he’s scared of you. You should have told him you wouldn’t hurt him, that this arrangement can be . . ._ what? What can it be? Amicable? Could they be . . . friendly? An angel and a demon. Crowley shook his head, brain rattling. It didn’t seem possible, and yet . . .

_You’ll never know if you don’t try,_ he told himself firmly. Somewhat reluctantly, he peeled himself out of bed. It was nearly five a.m. and he hadn’t slept.

He made his way down the stairs, being careful to tread softly and not wake the others. The living room was dark – only a dim light coming in through the windows. Crowley frowned, surveying the room slowly.

And felt his heart twist in his chest.

The angel was lying on one of the narrow couches, asleep.

_You idiot. You idiot. You royal fucking idiot._

Crowley cautiously took a step closer, then another. When he wasn’t berating himself, he was staring at the angel. The soft pleasant face, looking even softer and smoother in sleep. He looked so innocent and sweet, lying there. Harmless. _And you made him sleep on the couch in what’s supposed to be his own home. Great, great job, Crowley._ _Way to welcome him to the family. You really are shit at this, aren’t you?_

Crouching down beside the couch, Crowley continued to stare at the sleeping angel. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to wake him up – but he felt awful, seeing him here like this, sleeping on the couch.

_Angels don’t sleep._

_There is so much I don’t know,_ he realized. He lost track of time, watching the angel – his angel – the delicate eyelashes folded against his cheek, his pink lips, the light curls. _He’s beautiful,_ Crowley thought. And his tongue was heavy with regret, that he could have handled it all so much differently. _But how, this is a sham union, meant to last until Heaven grows bored and resumes the fighting. It isn’t like he’s going to fall in love with you. Still,_ Crowley thought, _he doesn’t deserve to be treated cruelly._

Time crept by without his noticing, and after seven, Hilda came down the stairs in her dressing gown, curlers in her hair. “Crowley, you’re up early . . .” he trailed off, eyes falling on the couch. She gave him _a look_ disappoint mingled with despair. And he sighed, unfolding slowly from his crouch.

“I _know._ Believe me, Hildy, I know.”

She shook her head, turning towards the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast. Don’t –” she said, holding up her hands and barring the way when he took a step after her. “ _Talk_ with him,” she said instead.

He turned back to the couch, to see that this had been sufficient to wake the angel. Aziraphale was blinking up at him – _beautiful,_ Crowley thought again, unbidden, and pushed the thought aside. Aziraphale sat up too quickly, eyes wide (scared) “Don’t –” said Crowley, raising his hands, “don’t be scared of me,” which was, probably, a hopeless thing to say.

Aziraphale was already apologizing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sosorry –” he was apologizing so much the words tripped over themselves.

Crowley cringed, throwing up his hands, like he could catch the words in mid-air. “You don’t need to apologize! _Why_ are you apologizing? _I_ should be the one apologizing – but – see – this –” his hands flapped uselessly, taking in Aziraphale, the couch, the darkened living room, “ _thissssss_ is why I’m so confused!” he said, unable to keep the hiss out of his voice, hating it when Aziraphale flinched at the sound. He took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you just tell me I was wrong? Last night, when I said, ‘angels don’t need to sleep,’ why didn’t you – why didn’t you just call me on my bullshit?” it was what Sabrina and her friends would have said. It got the point across, he hoped.

But no. Aziraphale only stared at him, hands in his lap, looking stricken. His face was pale with dread. “I – I don’t. You were right. I was wrong. You didn’t want me to sleep. I – I shouldn’t have been sleeping. I shouldn’t have slept.”

Crowley stared at him, trying to put the words together in his brain in a way that made sense. He repeated them to himself. _You didn’t want me to sleep._ “Aziraphale,” he said, forcing himself to speak slowly and quietly, “I don’t care if you sleep. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Aziraphale was silent, but he didn’t look reassured. He was staring at something past Crowley, hands twisting in his lap, biting his lip. “But . . . But you’re supposed to tell me what to do. I’m supposed to obey.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. Supposed to what? “Is this because of the . . . ceremony?” he asked, recalling the wedding, and Blackwood’s (or Downstairs’?) insistence on those vows of servitude and bondage. “Because I don’t want that.”

Aziraphale’s gaze was wide and hurt. “I’m not . . . am I not even worth that?” he asked, his voice so quiet and frail.

Crowley felt his heart breaking. “No, that’s not what I meant . . .”

“I know I’m not . . . I’m not what you would have wanted, or ch-chosen . . .” the angel looked down, at his lap, where he was now twisting the throw into knots.

Crowley could only stare. “How do you know what I would have chosen?” He held up a hand to forestall the torrent of apologies he didn’t want to inspire. _And since when did angels think so lowly of themselves?_ “Look, angel, this is not . . . I don’t want a slave,” he said.

Aziraphale was gradually beginning to focus on him, though his eyes still skittered nervously away. He bunched the blanket in his lap, throat bobbing. Crowley sighed. He hesitantly took a step closer, saw Aziraphale tense and frowned. _You are a demon . . . and he is scared of you,_ he reminded himself. He slowly dropped to his knees on the floor in front of the couch. Hoping that, at least, would show he was not trying to be threatening. That from this position, he was looking up at the angel, who was blinking wetness out of his eyes.

“I am not trying to frighten you,” he said _. I don’t want to frighten anyone. That’s why I keep the sunglasses on._ “And I’m _not_ saying I hate you, or that I don’t want you here. But I don’t want a slave. And I don’t give a fuck about what vows were said in that joke of a church.”

“. . . but Heaven . . .” he didn’t finish, trailing off, biting his lower lip again.

“Heaven’s not here,” he said, hoping he sounded gentle. “And neither is Hell. It’s just us. And this. And we can make this whatever we want. But you have to tell me. Please, Aziraphale, you have to tell me when I get it wrong.”

* * * * *

The demon was kneeling in front of him on the ground. And looking so . . . repentant? And gentle? But why? Aziraphale felt lightheaded, almost, with the wonder of it. It was such a strange feeling, that his heart was gradually slowing, that the unbearable tightness of fear and anxiety gripping his chest was just – marginally – beginning to loosen. The things Crowley was saying . . . they sounded unbelievable.

“But then . . . what are we?” he asked quietly.

Crowley was still, staring at him. Aziraphale wished he could see his eyes. The glasses were so . . . he couldn’t guess what he was thinking. “We’re just . . . us. I don’t know. But we’re stuck together, so . . .”

“So I can stay?” he had been afraid to ask this, and his voice trembled slightly. Terrified of what Crowley might say. They might be married as far as their respective offices were concerned, but that didn’t mean Crowley had to put up with him in his life, in his home.

“Yes, angel,” Crowley said softly. “Of course you can stay. I’m sorry about before. I was the one who thought you wouldn’t like it here. With me. With . . . us.”

“Oh.” The tears did fall then, and he couldn’t help them. “Thank you. Thank you, Crowley.”

* * * * *

Now the angel was thanking him. Thanking him and crying. He didn’t deserve to be thanked – thanked for what, not kicking his husband out on the street? But Crowley was afraid if he said anything, he would only make things worse, and Aziraphale smiled at him then – a shaky, fleeting sweet smile. As sweet as a glimpse of the sun on a rainy day. Crowley smiled back, just a corner of his mouth. _I want to hug him,_ he thought. _Can I hug him? No, best not,_ he told himself. _You’ll only make things worse._

But he did stand, and offered Aziraphale his hand. “Hilda’s making breakfast,” he said. “Do you eat breakfast? And please, angel, just tell me the truth.”

Aziraphale stared at his hand for a second, but then took it. His skin was warm and soft and sent a surprising wave of tingles up Crowley’s arm. He hadn’t been expecting . . . it was warm. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand lightly, and was glad when the angel didn’t pull away.

“I . . . I would . . . like that, if that – if that’s okay,” he said, eyes darting again, away from Crowley.

And he would have to find something to do about this timidness. This fear. For the moment, he smiled, tugged Aziraphale gently towards the kitchen. “Come on, she’ll be delighted,” he said.

Aziraphale eating was a revelation. For the first time Crowley had seen, his anxiety seemed to retreat. A light came into his blue eyes and he even wiggled in his seat. He was so cute Crowley nearly laughed.

At the first forkful of one of Hilda’s famous blueberry pancakes, Aziraphale moaned with pleasure. Crowley, sitting opposite him at the table, couldn’t help staring, chin propped up on his hand. Aziraphale was too distracted to notice, or be self-conscious, and the result was beautiful. The angel’s eyelids were fluttering, his skin lightly flushed. 

His enthusiastic compliments for Hilda made her beam, and the two of them began chatting about food and seemed to forget Crowley entirely. This was a relief, as he allowed himself to relax, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the two of them, unable to keep the smile off his face.

Aziraphale was glowing. He looked more like an “angel” then any of the celestial beings Crowley could remember. He looked warm and inviting, like the humans’ ideas of angels. How could he ever have thought of Aziraphale as one of the cold, unfeeling warriors of the Silver City, when he was so clearly something else – something more?

And how could Heaven stand to give him up? How could they toss him aside, leaving him to the likes of Crowley?

Eventually, Zelda and Sabrina came down and joined them. If they thought it was odd for an angel to be eating pancakes, they didn’t show it. Sabrina said good morning and hugged her Aunt Hilda, grabbing a stack of pancakes for herself and sat happily between them at the table. Zelda only asked if the paper had been delivered. They joined them as though this was a normal everyday morning, and Crowley supposed that it would be from now. He found himself not minding as much as he thought he would. In fact, he felt relieved by it. Seeing Aziraphale sitting at their breakfast table felt right. 

“So . . . I suppose we could clean up Ambrose’s room and Aziraphale could sleep there?” he said.

Sabrina looked at him and he could see her thinking, _oh, so you were wrong about the no-sleeping thing?_ “His drawings are all over the place. He’ll be mad if you touch them.”

“And besides, that won’t work, he’s coming back tonight,” said Hilda. “Remember? We’re going to pick him up at the airport?”

Crowley had _not_ remembered. Ambrose had been enjoying an extended summer holiday in Europe and, he realized, knew nothing about their current situation.

He wondered how difficult it would be to miracle an entire guest room, and then wondered if he should just pay a contractor to build an addition . . .

“Oh, please, it’s no trouble, I don’t mind sleeping on the sofa, really,” said Aziraphale.

“Nonsense,” said Zelda, also looking at Crowley sharply, “you’re our guest.”

“You’re _family_ ,” said Sabrina.

“Fine, _I’ll_ take the couch this week,” said Crowley, frowning. “And talk to someone about building an addition . . .”

Zelda peered at him over the top of the newspaper, rustling it in front of her. “Is that monstrosity you call a bed not big enough for two people, brother?”

He felt his ears burn and Aziraphale blushed entirely red.

“Well, you _are_ married, are you not? It seems extravagant to pay for an _addition_ \--”

“Zells . . .” Hilda laughed nervously. “That’s their business . . .”

“Hmph.”

Crowley remained silent, staring at his coffee. Okay, technically they were married and it . . . the bed was big enough that it could fit two people, and they wouldn’t even have to touch. But would Aziraphale be okay with that? “I could sleep at the school,” he muttered.

“N-no, oh, I don’t want to take your bed away from you,” said Aziraphale. “Please, truly, the couch is wonderful –”

Crowley sighed. “Well, let’s table this until tonight. For the record, I _did_ forget about Ambrose – what are we going to tell him?”

“The truth?” Sabrina said, tilting her head to look at him. Her question was not really a question at all. And, loathe though he was to go through it all again, Crowley nodded and sighed. Their family was changing and he could finally acknowledge it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in this universe Ambrose Spellman is not under house-arrest. Crowley, of course, talked him out of his plan to "blow up the Vatican" long before it got to the point where he would be arrested by the witch's council. He still lives with them part-time, but he also travels the world, living his best life. He will come into the story - if not in the next chapter, than in the one after that.


	10. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you so much for all the comments! I’m really sorry that this chapter took so long. I got hit by a really bad cold - NOT the Corona Virus, thankfully - but it did knock me out for more than week. Plus, with all of the Corona Virus stuff, my day-job has been in chaos, everyone is stressed, and it’s not been easy to feel inspired. I’m so sorry, I know these are hard times for everybody and most people have it worse off than me (I haven’t lost my job. Yet. Though everyday there's talk.) It’s just been a lot. And I can’t concentrate. And so this chapter took me 30 million freakin' years to write. I’m seriously so sorry about that! I really hope you like it and that it was worth the wait.

“How did you know?”

Crowley found Sabrina sitting out on the porch, Salem curled purring in her arms. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, sunglasses firmly in place even though it was a dark and overcast day. The wind blew through his black jacket, icy with the first taste of winter, rattling the window frames and making a few shutters snap and bang.

“ _Know?_ Know what?” Sabrina looked up at him, scratching Salem behind the ears. The cat (well, it wasn’t really a cat) purred louder, nuzzling into her shoulder. 

Crowley regarded her. He was beginning to worry that she was cleverer at sixteen than he was six thousand. “How did you know about the angel?” he asked. “That he wasn’t happy. Or that he’s . . . different. Y’know. Safe.” Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t even think he’d be approachable, at first . . . angels are . . .” _wheels of fire in the sky, holy warriors, celestial exterminators. And we’re the cockroaches._

Her face was half-hidden by the black cat, but he could tell she was amused. “Geez, I dunno, Dad. Maybe because I paid attention? Or here’s a wild idea – spoke to him? Like a person?” her tone was teasing and light, but he still felt the sting.

“You’ve handled it all so well,” he told her. “It’s what your mother would have done.” Rose had always been the compassionate one. “Well, after she kicked my ass for getting re-married.”

“Do you think mom would really be mad about that?” Sabrina frowned, letting Salem jump down from her arms as she stood. The cat sat there, glaring up at him with big yellow eyes, tail twitching. _How dare you interrupt my snuggle time?_ Crowley scowled at it, and Salem darted back inside.

“It’s been sixteen years,” Sabrina continued, in a quiet voice, standing beside him. “I think she’d want you to move on.”

“I didn’t know how you would react . . .” he admitted. Though it sounded foolish now.

“Oh, Dad,” she huffed. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yes, it’s becoming clear.”

“I want you to be happy, obviously. Besides, I think it’s romantic . . . a demon and an angel.”

“It’s very modern. Even more scandalous than marrying your mother.”

“Well, good. I’d hate to think we Spellmans were losing our edge in the matrimony department.”

They smiled at each other and Crowley felt something loosen in his chest. Maybe this could work somehow, insane as it was.

“So . . . can my mortal friends come over and meet him, or what?”

Crowley pulled a face.

“What . . .” she laughed, “I’m not going to tell them he’s a celestial being or anything . . . but I _am_ going to tell them he’s your secret husband and that you eloped without telling anybody.”

“Ugh. But. But. No. But,” he stammered, reaching for her phone, but she danced out of his reach, already typing.

“Try to act like normal people, okay?”

“Oh, yeah, the demon, angel and witches. We’re just the poster-family for normal.”

* * * * *

It was lunchtime and the Spellman household was bustling with teenage activity. Aziraphale stayed in the kitchen, with Hilda . . . not hiding. No, of course not. He was helping her put together sandwiches and lemonade for them. He felt safe in the kitchen. It was warm and pleasant and . . .

Aziraphale wasn’t afraid of being around mortals, per say, but he _was_ afraid of saying the wrong thing and making Crowley angry. Even though the demon had spent the morning _assuring_ him that his being here was okay . . . Aziraphale couldn’t shake the feeling that, with one wrong move, he could destroy everything. Gabriel had taught him that he _always_ needed to be on his best behaviour, cautious of every word and deed.

Crowley had told him that Sabrina had a group of human friends she was quite fond of, but that they didn’t know anything about demons or witches (or angels.) Fair enough. After all, he’d been on Earth for thousands of years and known plenty of humans, without ever letting on that he was an angel. But it had been nearly a hundred years since then. From what little he’d seen, he knew that the world had changed a lot since the 1940s, and he worried about giving himself away, to these modern, American teenagers. How was he even meant to relate to them?

From the kitchen, he and Hilda could hear the kids’ loud chatter and laughter, and that made him smile. It had been such a long time since he’d heard anything like it. There was no laughter in the Silver City, at least none that sounded genuine.

He didn’t know where Crowley and Zelda had disappeared to – apparently they preferred to give the young people space when they were over and had gone to run errands instead.

“Oh, _you know_ Zelda,” Hilda said, as though he’d been living with them for years now, “she doesn’t think much of having mortals about. Very old fashioned that way. Oh, but _you_ could go and say hi. They’re very nice kids, really.”

“I really couldn’t . . . I . . . wouldn’t want to interrupt,” he looked down at his lap nervously. Thoughts about how he would make everything worse riled in his head.

But then Sabrina flounced into the kitchen, “oh, _here_ you are!” she beamed, like she was actually glad to see him, and grabbed him by the hand. “Please, Aziraphale! Please come and meet my friends!”

And he couldn’t refuse, so, swallowing nervously and beginning to perspire a little, he stumbled after her into the living room. As much as he wasn’t _scared_ of mortals, it was still a tad bit unnerving to have three pairs of eyes turn in unison to study him, all with frank curiosity. 

“Guys! This is Aziraphale, my dad’s husband!” Sabrina announced cheerily, with a flourish, like she was a stage magician and he was the trick being revealed.

Aziraphale held his breath, waiting for them to jeer or . . .

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said a lanky boy with wavy brown hair. He stood, extending his hand to Aziraphale. “I’m Harvey Kinkle. This is Susie Putnam, and Rosalind Walker.” He shook his hand warmly, with no apparent malice. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale managed, feeling stiff and awkward. The two kids sitting on either side of Harvey on the big couch smiled at him encouragingly.

Gender didn’t matter to immortal beings (bodies barely mattered) but he was a little surprised by how easily Sabrina’s human friends accepted her father having a husband. He couldn’t help remembering, with a pang of great sadness, his friend Oscar Wilde being carted off in chains in 1895. He hadn’t been allowed to use a miracle to save him. It was good that the mortal world had progressed, but it was yet another sign of how he was divorced from time and place.

“So, how did you and Mr. Spellman meet?” asked Harvey.

_Mr. Spellman?_ Oh, yes, that was Crowley’s current name in the human world. Aziraphale stuttered. “Er . . .” his heart started racing. He hadn’t thought of a cover story. _Stupid,_ he cursed himself _, so stupid._

“Oh, Harvey, I told you - they met at one of those out-of-town conventions my dad’s always going to!” Sabrina bubbled cheerfully, “it was a whirlwind romance!”

Aziraphale laughed nervously, resisting the urge to tug on his bow-tie. This was a bad idea.

But then Sabrina artfully redirected the conversation. She got the others talking about some club they were forming at school. And Rosalind, a girl with curly hair and thick spectacles, launched into a discussion about a list of forbidden books that the teachers at Baxter High didn’t want them read. He hadn’t heard of most of them (which made since, they were probably written post-1945) but when he expressed an interest, she began enthusiastically describing them.

Sabrina smiled. “I had a feeling you two would get along,” she said.

And then Rosalind asked him about _his_ favourite books, and, well. Speaking to the group became a lot easier.

* * * * *

Crowley and Zelda returned from the supermarket later that afternoon. He was surprised to see Aziraphale in the living room, chatting (apparently easily) with Sabrina and her crowd. Crowley wondered if he shouldn’t be concerned, but the angel appeared more lively and at ease than ever.

He was lovely in those unguarded moments when he wasn’t aware of Crowley watching him. That . . . hurt slightly, if he were being honest. The idea that it was Crowley, and only Crowley, who was the scary thing, the cause of the angel’s intense discomfort. With the humans, Aziraphale was smiling and talking about books.

_Books?_ _Really?_ Crowley caught snippets of their conversation and his brow furrowed.

Aziraphale sounded like he knew what he was talking about. But since when did angels follow human culture, beyond _The Sound of Music_?

But when Roz Walker offered to loan the angel some book or another, Aziraphale sounded downright delighted, thanking her again and again.

Crowley bumped into Zelda, who turned to glare at him over her brown paper shopping bag. “ _Really,_ brother. Your head is in the clouds again. As usual these days.”

“No, I just . . .” he nodded in the direction of the chatting group.

She rolled her eyes.

Aziraphale was saying, “actually, I used to own a bookstore . . .”

And Crowley nearly dropped the bag he was carrying. He managed not to break the eggs by way of a minor demonic miracle. Downstairs would be furious if they knew he used his powers for things like helping his sisters with the grocery shopping instead of tormenting humanity.

He quickly followed Zelda into the kitchen.

“Listen to him. He lived on Earth before.”

“Does that matter?”

“No. Yes. Maybe?” Crowley shrugged. “I thought this was his first time on Earth. But . . . it makes sense, I s’pose.”

“He has an accent,” Zelda pointed out. “I assumed he’d lived in England, at least.”

“Details!” he huffed. _You don’t pay attention,_ Sabrina had said. “Anyway, I was on Earth since the beginning, and in London for a lot of it, and I never ran into him!”

“And do you know every supernatural being on the face of the planet?” she asked. “Or in London, for that matter?”

_Still._ It made him wonder if he’d seen Aziraphale on the street . . . maybe he’d walked past him in Piccadilly, or Trafalgar Square. Wouldn’t he have noticed him, walking through Saint James Park? Had Crowley strode past the angel’s bookstore once long ago, and never known him?

It seemed sad somehow, that they could have met many times and didn’t. Of course, that was foolish – if they’d met back then, they would have been sworn enemies. The probably would have tried to destroy one other. That was how this usually went, after all.

In any case, one of Sabrina’s human friends, Susie Putnam, ambled into the kitchen, so the conversation was discontinued. Her lumpy brown sweater had some loose threads, and he noticed a bruise fading on the side of her face. “Everything alright, Putnam?”

She shrugged, pulling absently at her sweater. “Can I help you put away the groceries?”

“Sure,” he shrugged. Crowley had a soft spot for children which, as a demon, he tried to hide. But Sabrina’s friends had been coming over since they were five years old, and saw through his gruffness. It was almost irritating, that.

Zelda, meanwhile, was the opposite – she rolled her eyes behind Susie’s back and slipped out the side door, into the graveyard. Probably for a cigarette.

“Someone picking on you, Putnam?” he asked, gesturing to vaguely to his own face.

She shrugged again. “Just football jerks . . . doesn’t matter.”

“Towns like this can be hard . . .” He quickly cycled through what he knew of Susie Putnam. He knew she lived on an old farm at the outskirts of town, with her father. “Everything alright at home?”

She paused. Biting her lip. “Did you ever meet my uncle, Mr. Spellman? Jesse Putnam?”

Crowley frowned. “I don’t believe so.”

“He’s been staying with us. My dad and me are kinda taking care of him. He’s . . . not well. He saw something down in the mines. Something that made him . . .”

_The mines. The Devil’s Doorway. Literally. Tunnels straight to Hell._ He repressed a shudder. “Hey. I’m sorry, kid.”

There was something else. She looked like she was struggling with what to say. Crowley waited. He could be patient.

“My dad said something else . . . about him – Uncle Jesse – dressing up in their mom’s clothes, when they were kids. Do you think that’s . . . weird?”

Ah. There it was. Mortals did love tormenting themselves with their own arbitrary rules, didn’t they? “No,” he said. “It’s not weird at all. ‘Sides, you think I’ve never worn a dress? I look great in a skirt.”

“Seriously?” Putnam gave him a cautious, guarded look, like they weren’t sure if he was making fun.

“I mean it.”

“But you’re so . . . You’re kinda cool. For an old guy.”

“Hmph. There’s nothing cool about conforming to rigid gender roles, Putnam.”

He saw a look cross their face then – thoughtful, questioning. “Send your uncle over to visit when he gets better, okay? We’ll go shopping.”

There was such a look of relief on her face, then. _Her?_ Wait. He’d known these kids for years, but maybe he shouldn’t be making assumptions.

“You can always talk to me, Putnam,” he said softly.

“Thanks, Mr. Spellman.”

* * * * *

In the dark outside the Spellman residence, Hastur and Ligur lurked. They stuck to the edge of the property line – not by choice, so much as an invisible warding that prevented their going further. That, and some strict words from the Boss, who wanted Sabrina to sign His book and formally declare her allegiance to Downstairs.

But Hastur sure didn’t see what was so great about some bratty half-human bird. And besides, he figured, what was the use of being a demon, if you didn’t get to stir shit up, on occasion?

“That Crowley . . .” Hastur snarled. “Treats us like dirt for years. And why should he be promoted above us? I’m a duke, you know.”

Ligur nodded sympathetically. Or, as sympathetically as was possible for a demon.

“Imagine, making him a ‘prince.’ S’not right. The Boss has gone soft. Sentimental-like.” This was, of course, not something he would have said within a hundred yards of said Boss.

Ligur nodded. “Y’know, I don’t believe half the stuff he claims he’s done. The witch trials? We all know he’s soft on witches.”

“Right . . . so, it’s about time someone took the lousy wanker down a peg. Is what I’m thinkin’ . . .” Hastur continued, brow wrinkled in concentration. “Like, this family he’s got. What’s that all about? Bit degenerate, you ask me. No self-respecting demon has a family.”

Hastur’s eyes were black orbs, like spilled oil. His white hair was greasy and matted, and atop perched an oozing, gelatinous toad.

“Sick, is what it is,” Ligur shook his head. Then he grinned, wide and bloody. The lizard atop his head twitched its long tail. “I’m thinkin’ we should relieve him of them.”

Hastur chuckled. “Now you’re thinking what I’m thinking . . .”

“But . . . the Boss . . .” Ligur’s grin faded. “He wants the girl. He’s obsessed with her. Every meeting, every memo – Sabrina this, Sabrina that.”

“The Boss’ll get over it,” said Hastur.

“Yeah, the Devil’s sure known for his mercy.”

Hastur paused. But then, he – thinking very hard – came up with: “Well . . . he don’t have to know it was _us_ ,” said Hastur. “What if we got ourselves a lackey. Y’know, a fall guy. Someone who can pass the wards and shit.”

“Yeah, who’s that, then?” Ligur asked, trying to sound casual. As far as he knew Hastur only hung out with him. They did bad work together. Champion lurkers. Was there someone else?

Hastur didn’t answer, disappearing instead in a wave of putrid smoke.

Ligur scowled, stomping through the shadows cast by the nearby trees. A group of human teenagers left the house, but he didn’t have time to torment them. Not tonight. Tonight was all about that piece of shit, _Crawly,_ and his sickening little family.

* * * * *

It was late.

Zelda and Hilda had left, driving to the city to pick up Ambrose. They ended up calling an hour later to say that his flight had been delayed, and they shouldn’t wait up. Sabrina yawned and headed upstairs with Salem tucked in her arms.

That left Crowley. And Aziraphale. And the question of the bed.

He cleared his throat. “Well, as I said, I don’t mind sleeping in my room at the school. I have a big suite, after all. And I can miracle myself back and forth, so it really isn’t much of a commute.”

But Aziraphale looked stricken at the very thought. “Oh no, no, no. Please, I couldn’t possibly – I mean eject you from your own house.” He twisted his hands together nervously, eyes dropping away from Crowley’s. Quieter: “please don’t go, Crowley.”

“Alright. But, that does raise the question of . . . the problem of . . . not enough beds.” He poured himself and the angel both another glass of wine. They’d been drinking since dinner time, not enough to be properly drunk or anything, but it did amuse him how eagerly Aziraphale reached for his glass.

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” he murmured. Then blushed. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “For what?” he asked, but he himself had blushed slightly at the endearment. The surprise of it. But it was nice. Gave him a sort of warm feeling.

“It’s not – ah – too forward?” Aziraphale was practically whispering, clutching the wine glass in a grip that made Crowley a little concerned for the glass’s integrity.

“Probably not too forward for a married couple, no,” he replied, trying to keep his tone light and easy, hoping to reassure Aziraphale, and spare a wine glass.

The angel’s shoulders sagged in relief. Crowley found himself blinking rapidly behind his sunglasses in confusion. It wasn’t just their vows, or that he was a demon, was it? Something else was going on with Aziraphale.

“So, when were you on Earth?” he asked, after the silence had lasted a good minute. He was mostly just casting around for something to say to keep the conversation going, but Aziraphale’s blue eyes flashed up to him, looking alarmed.

“I wasn’t spying or anything, I just heard you with the kids and . . . you said something about owning a bookstore.”

“Ah . . . well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. If you’re not mad,” he took another lung gulp of wine.

“Why would I be . . .” ah, that wasn’t going to get him anywhere. “If anything, I’m glad. I was just curious, that’s all. London?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, a brief, fleeting thing, bowing his head. “Yes. It was a long time ago, though.”

He didn’t offer anything else, and Crowley decided not to push. They finished their drinks in companionable silence, listening to the radio, and then they were back where they started. “About the . . . uh, the sleeping arrangements,” he tried again. “Where would you like. Uh. I can take the couch.”

“No . . . please . . .”

Crowley remembered that Aziraphale had it in his head that he was supposed to obey and not upset him. But he didn’t know how to navigate this. “I mean . . . the bed’s big enough . . .” he coughed.

Aziraphale merely nodded, twisting the now-empty wine glass this way and that, avoiding his gaze. Crowley found himself flashing back to that first night – their wedding night – even though it was honestly the last thing he’d like to think about. His stomach twisted sour with guilt, and for a moment he worried that Aziraphale had only indulged in the wine out of panic and fear.

_No,_ he had to remind himself, the angel seemed to enjoy food and drink. And he wasn’t – it wasn’t like that night.

“They rather threw us together, didn’t they?” Aziraphale said softly. As if that wasn’t the understatement of the century. Then, as though he were reading Crowley’s mind: “we shouldn’t be surprised that things are awkward.”

“Just a tad,” said Crowley.

“And you’re . . . oh, you’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” he continued. Crowley merely nodded, he had, of course had similar feelings about the angel. But what Aziraphale said next made the demon’s blood run cold: “they said you would torture me and . . . well, they were fairly explicit,” he laughed a thin, strangled sound utterly without humour. Crowley felt himself pale.

“Oh, I know you’re not like that now,” said Aziraphale hurriedly, as though trying to reassure him. As though _he_ was the one who needed reassurance. He tried to speak, but the words lodged sticky in his throat.

_Of course you were supposed to torture him, you’re a demon,_ a voice rang through his skull. He remembered the demons laughing at the wedding announcement. Of course he had heard all their talk. But when he thought about Aziraphale hearing the same things, it made his skin crawl.

“Anyways, I only bring it up because, well, knowing you, as I do now, makes me wish I was someone better – more worthy of your kindness.”

Crowley slouched lower in his chair. “’m not kind,” he muttered, without feeling behind it.

Aziraphale smiled at him – the small smile, somewhat timid, but Crowley thought, indulgent of him. “Of course, my dear. I only meant . . . it doesn’t seem quite fair, does it? I think they must have chosen me for you rather as an insult.”

Crowley blinked very slowly. “Wait. . . . What?”

“I . . . just . . . obviously, there are better angels. More beautiful. More, um,” he was doing that thing again, where he wouldn’t look at Crowley, “angelic.”

“No . . .” he stood, without even realizing what he was doing, closing the space between their chairs in a couple long strides. Aziraphale looked up startled and his shoulders trembled. He flinched when Crowley stood over his chair and the demon wavered uncertainly for a second, before placing his hands on either armrest. At least the angel was surprised enough to look at him for once.

“No, angel, I don’t believe there are.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed with pink and his mouth dropped open. He stared at Crowley like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Crowley gently plucked the empty glass from his hands and set it on a side table. Aziraphale was a riddle he wouldn’t solve tonight. But he hated the thought that, of either of them, it should be Aziraphale who felt unworthy.

He offered the angel his hand. “Come on,” he said softly, “I am dead tired.”

* * * * *

The demon was ugly even by their standards – with long nails like talons and thick tangles of wild matted hair. Her skin was an oozing mess of pustules and boils. But when she looked at them, her small black eyes were beady and sharp as a magpie’s. “What do you boys want? Why do you disturb an old woman from her rest?”

Ligur snorted. “You’re no old woman.”

She huffed, drawing her ragged shawl around narrow, bony shoulders. “Young demons today have no respect.”

“Shut up and get in the house,” said Hastur.

“I don’t work for you,” she snarled, “little frog and little lizard.” She showed them a mouth brimming with pointed shark’s teeth.

“Look, you’re wasting your time, mate,” Ligur grinned. “The old broad can’t get in there, anyways. They got wards and whatnot, yeah? State o’ the magical arts.” 

The thing that looked like an old woman drew herself up higher, her pointed chin thrust out. “They never made a ward that could keep my nightmares out!”

“Yeah, right,” said Hastur, matching Ligur’s grin, “face it, you’re all washed up. Ain’t tormented anyone in centuries.”

“The people in that house – one fancies himself a Prince of Hell,” Ligur added.

“Prince?” she wrinkled her nose. “I only recognize one prince – Prince Lucifer Morningstar, the Lightbringer, the Adversary, Destroyer of Worlds-”

“Yeah, yeah, Grandma-”

“I ain’t your grandma,” she spat, stomping on Ligur’s foot as she shouldered him aside to get a better look at the sprawling Victorian house on the hill, with its patchy garden and small graveyard. A creaky wooden sign outside proclaimed it to be the Spellman Mortuary. “This Spellman fella, who is he?”

“He disrespects you and our Dark Lord,” said Hastur. “Fancies himself better than the rest of us – he’s even got this little family, in there . . .”

“Does he now?” the demon snarled, and the snarl curled into a horrible, hideous smile as she listened to Hastur talk.

So this would-be prince had a daughter, did he? Children were so much fun to torture in her twisted dreams . . . she spread her arms and dissolved into a grey mist that rolled up the hill, seeping into the walls of the house.

No wards were good enough to keep the bad dreams out.

* * * * *

The attic was more spacious than it ought to be – strict speaking, if one were keen on following the laws of physics. But it was still a bedroom, with only one bed. Impressively large though that bed was, even more so than the one at the Academy. It was draped in soft-slithery looking black silk sheets, with blood red pillows. Aziraphale found himself hesitating though. He wasn’t sure what precisely was expected of him here. He couldn’t help but remember the last time (the first time) but . . . they weren’t? Were they?

_It’s alright,_ he told himself. _Whatever happens_. Crowley hadn’t gone out of his way to hurt him, even then. He could certainly endure whatever matrimonial duties were expected of him. After all, he’d _endured_ for Gabriel, and the archangel hadn’t been nearly as kind.

And no matter what the demon said, Crowley was kind.

Aziraphale had miracled up a pair of warm fluffy pajamas for himself, and Crowley was in a black dressing gown and slippers and still, rather maddeningly, his black sunglasses. He was also hesitating, hovering back near the attic stairs, observing Aziraphale. Even though they had said they would share the bed.

Aziraphale hemmed and hawed, feeling more ridiculous by the moment with Crowley just watching him. “Do you . . . do you have a side preference, or . . .?” 

Crowley shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh.”

They sort of skirted around the huge bed, neither wanting to be the first to touch it. Which was ridiculous, Aziraphale thought, so, steeling himself, he took another step and drew back a corner of the covers. He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was thick and soft and he couldn’t relax at all because Crowley stood there, still staring at him. After an eternity, Crowley took a step towards the other side of the bed.

“Forgive me, my dear,” he held his tongue for a moment. The endearment had slipped out, _again,_ foolishly. Gabriel would have said called it sentimental garbage, but Crowley said nothing, only watched him expectantly. Waiting for him to go on. Aziraphale forced himself to smile, trying to relax. “The sunglasses . . . I just thought . . .”

A flicker of a frown crossed the demon’s face and he raised one hand to the side of his glasses, but then lowered it again. “Trust me, angel, it’s better this way.”

Aziraphale felt a twinge of disappointment. He had already seen the demon’s eyes, once, after all – golden, slit-pupils and strangely beautiful.

Crowley was now standing directly beside the bed, looking down . . . Aziraphale gulped, but decided he may as well just ask. “Will you . . . do you want to . . . lie with me?” he stuttered, feeling his face heat up.

Crowley stared back at him, through those damned impenetrable black shades. “Ngk. . . . . . . In what sense?”

Aziraphale, blushing harder, plucked at the coverlet – and then the night was shattered by a loud scream.

_Oh, thank God._

He noticed Crowley also appeared slightly relieved, as footsteps came pounding up the rickety attic stairs and Sabrina’s light-blonde head appeared. “Dad! Dad! _DAD!”_

“What?”

“No time – help me –” she bent to pull up the stairs behind her, and Crowley gently moved her out of the way. With a snap of his fingers, the attic sealed itself – the stairs slamming up with a heavy thunk.

Crowley had his arm around her shoulders. “At the risk of sounding repetitive . . . _what_?”

“There’s a – a – demon!”

Crowley looked at her, and Aziraphale could see he was raising one eyebrow behind his glasses.

Aziraphale got out of bed. “What . . . what sort of demon, would you say?”

“I don’t know! An _actual_ demon! You know, a scary one!”

Crowley frowned. “Who?”

“I didn’t ask their name!”

“Maybe they’ve just come to speak to you?” Aziraphale offered. “News from, um, Downstairs?”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, demons aren’t exactly the type to make social calls. Not pleasant ones, anyway.”

“SPELLMANS!” a voice bellowed from bellow. The whole house seemed to shake. Crowley pushed Sabrina towards Aziraphale.

“I smell you up there, Spellmans – you can’t hide from me – I’ll feast on the last dregs of your tortured lives.”

Crowley sighed wearily, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll sort this out,” he said, pausing to look at them. “Wait here.”

“Dad – no – !” Sabrina shouted in frustration as Crowley vanished. She turned to Aziraphale. “Follow him!”

“But . . . oh dear.”

She grabbed his arm. “Come on!”

They reappeared downstairs, in the foyer, the great staircase before them. Crowley glanced at them but seemed neither particular surprised nor upset by their arrival. “Ilocano sleep demon,” he said, as a creature that looked almost like a woman – apart from the razor-sharp fangs and claws – appeared on the staircase. One long talon wrapped against the wooden banister.

“Oi, don’t scratch the polish,” called Crowley. “What?” he glanced at Sabrina and Aziraphale, “Zelda will kill me.”

“I will feast on the grey matter in your brain-flesh, Spellmansss . . .” the creature snarled.

“. . . and why does she hate you?” asked Aziraphale.

“No clue.” Crowley turned back to the stairs. “Hey, who sent you?”

“You will unlock the wards, serpent, to allow the archdukes of Hell, your brethren, your betters, the commanders of the Infernal Army –”

“Hastur and Ligur?” Crowley threw up his hands. “Oh, give me a break!”

The demon-woman was more powerful than she appeared. Aziraphale felt a ripple in the etheric field. Grey mist leaked into the hall, rolling up from the walls. “Um, Crowley –”

“Those stupid, lousy – all this time and they’re still jealous of my promotion.”

“You will unlock the wards,” the demon said, “and the dukes of Hell shall reward me by helping me spread my sublime nightmares across the world.”

“Nightmares?” asked Sabrina.

“Yes, err, sleep demon,” said Aziraphale, touching her arm lightly. He drew her attention to the gathering mist. It clung to the walls, wrinkling the wallpaper and creating a wet sheen against the floor.

“What is that?”

“A symphony of nightmares!” the demon shrieked. “Waiting to slaughter you . . . one by one . . . crack you open like eggs and drink your insides all up.”

“Oh dear, we need to – Crowley, we must –”

But Crowley was pitching forwards. He hit the ground, snoring. Asleep.

Sabrina gasped, sagging against him. “No, stay awake –” but he had to gather her in his arms before she fell over.

Aziraphale stared at the demon growing larger in a rush of writhing shadows, so that she appeared to spread across the Spellman house, to tower over and surround them.

“Be gone from this place, Hellspawn!” he said, trying very much to sound like the kind of angel he wasn’t – the warrior with the flaming sword.

The demon seemed to know. “Ah, the little principality. The one who gave his sword away –” she cackled, and the noise reverberated through the groaning floorboards of the house, leaking from the walls. Aziraphale shuddered. “I’m going to pluck your wings feather by feather . . . after I feast on the pretty girl’s sweet teenage dreams . . .”

“You will do no such thing!” he cried. “Leave her alone! Quit this place and . . . and go back to Hell!”

She was rearing up in front of him then, her mouth a wide angry gash stuffed with teeth, and the floor was tilting wildly. Angels shouldn’t sleep . . . virtue shouldn’t sleep . . . but he had never been that strong, Aziraphale thought miserably. As he fell away from everything.

“Enjoy your sweet dreams, my pretties,” the demon crowed. “Until they turn sour . . .”

The last thing he heard was a cat meow.

* * * * *

Salem, seeing his witch and her family fall, meowed once, mournfully. When the demon’s black glittering eyes fell on him, he ran.

~SABRINA~  
  


_It’s her wedding day. Sabrina is brimming with excitement. Warmth. Happiness. Elation. She’s wearing a crisp white wedding dress with lace. She’s marrying her high school sweetheart, Harvey Kinkle. What could be better?_

_She walks into the room where Harvey is changing into his tuxedo, struggling with his tie, and she wonders if she should send one of her dads in to help him. He looks up at her, surprised but unable to keep the giant, goofy grin off his face. His floppy brown hair falls into his eyes. Her sweet, beautiful Harvey._

_“What are you doing? It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding!” he says, but he’s laughing as he covers his eyes._

_She takes his hand and lowers it. “I know . . . but things are moving so fast . . . and there’s something I need to tell you, and it’s either speak now or forever hold my peace.”_

_“You’re shaking!” he says, wrapping his arms around her. Harvey feels warm and steady. And safe. She relaxes into him, breathing in the smell of his cologne. “What is it?” he asks._

_“Harvey . . . I’m a witch.”_

_He takes a step back. Stares at her._

_And she stares back at him. Her perfect, beautiful, normal boyfriend. Has she ruined it all? She can’t fight the tremble that shoots through her. She couldn’t bear it if he hated her. If he . . . she cringes inwardly. “Should I not have told you?”_

_Harvey looks at her, places his warm hands back onto her shoulders. He looks into her eyes. “I love you, Sabrina. I always have and I always will.”_

~AZIRAPHALE~

_Aziraphale is walking through his bookshop. And the past eighty years melt away and have never been . . . He walks the stacks slowly, savoring the smells, the way the light is diffused softly by the thick windows. He raises a hand to the spines, leather-bound with gilt lettering. Schubert plays on the gramophone, crackly, but rich and deep. He smiles, humming along under his breath. He looks out the windows and sees a bustling, thriving Soho. He’s home._

_The bell above the shop door jingles. He looks up from his books and sees a handsome man in a black overcoat and top hat, with long red hair, holding the door open for his daughter. The man is wearing darkened spectacles over his eyes, but is somehow familiar. Something in his manner puts Aziraphale at ease._

_His daughter is a young woman with platinum hair, her shoulders wrapped in a green, fur-lined shawl. She approaches him. “Excuse me, sir. Do you have any books on witchcraft?”_

_Aziraphale can’t quite keep the shocked look off his face. That a young lady would ask for such a thing! But the handsome redhead walks slowly around the shelves, looping them. His stride is easy, confident, relaxed. He smiles at Aziraphale and it feels like his heart is turning over in his chest._

_He finds himself smiling back. “Well, I . . . I do have several books of prophecy, if you’re interested in that . . . I . . .”_

_“We’ll take them,” the man says, and then he’s holding Aziraphale’s hand. “And maybe you’ll join us for lunch?”_

_“You . . . you want my company?” Aziraphale asks – squeaks, really – in shock._

_The man grins. “Sure. Yes. I'd love it. Come, eat with us.”_

_The girl opens one of his rarest books. It falls open to a prophecy about the antichrist._ And the gates of Hell will be thrown open. And Satan’s prophet, his Herald of Hell, will lead the way . . . _and the woodcut, the illustration . . . the book falls closed again before he can see it._

_“Gloomy topic . . .” he says nervously._

_“Yes, don’t worry about that now,” says the man who makes his heart flutter. “Come eat with us.”_

_The girl smiles at him. “We know just the loveliest place for crepes.”_

~CROWLEY~

_Crowley is walking through the front doors of the Spellman house in Greendale. He and Hilda had been living in London for a while, for a change of scenery, but now they’re home again. In Greendale. Where Lucifer fell. The cradle of demons._

_And he’s also bringing his new bride, Rose, with them._

_His sister Zelda sits on a chair in front of the fireplace, the Children of Night are gathered around her feet, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They listen, rapt, while she reads from a large, leather bound tomb._

_“. . . and of the fruit of the tree in the middle of the garden, the False God said, ‘ye shall not eat it, lest ye shall die.’”_

_Crowley cringes in embarrassment, ducking behind Rose. She is wearing a long pink dress and denim jacket. “Sunday school?” she asks._

_“Not . . . exactly.”_

_Zelda continues: “But did Eve die when she ate the fruit, children?”_

_Her tiny charges crow: “noooo.”_

_“No, of course not,” Zelda smiles, lifting the book to show off a gilt-embossed illustration. In the picture, he’s a green snake, glittery emerald. Pretty. “The False God lied to Eve, because he desired to keep her naked in his garden.” She sees him then, and smiles, eyes shining. “But the Serpent gave Eve knowledge and set her free.”_

_Rose elbows him in the side. “Look at you, Mr. Local Celebrity.” She smiles at him, eyes mischievous._

_He smiles back._

_Zelda scowls._

~SABRINA~

_The mortuary is transformed. A huge bundle of flowers, overflowing with white blossoms so lush and fragrant, her dad must have yelled at them for weeks, are exploding from a vase in the main hall. Prudence Night leans against it. She eyes Sabrina up and down. “Well, well. Don’t we look stunning. You clean up alright, little snake.”_

_“What do you want, Prudence?”_

_The witch smirks at her. Dark eyes dancing. “It’s not too late to run. You, me. Two witches. Like it’s meant to be.”_

_Sabrina stares at her. Various responses war within her chest. We’re barely even friends. I could never do that to Harvey. “He loves me,” she says._

_“Does he?”_

_Prudence vanishes, and Crowley appears. He hands her a bouquet of the most gorgeous flowers. “My little girl. All grown up.”_

_“Dad, are you crying?”_

_The organ begins to play. The waiting room has been transformed. A huge trellis arches across the space, dripping pink roses. And her family and friends are seated on chairs._

_Along the far wall is a mural of the Garden of Eden. And she is getting married in front of a painting of the apple tree. The tree looks so real. She reaches up and a shiny red apple falls into her hand. It’s glistening, red with blood. She holds it and smells smoke. She sees the Earth opening in long jagged cracks and fire licking up from beneath. She sees four horsemen riding in the distance._

_“Sabrina!” Harvey says._

_She drops the apple._

_“Stop the wedding!” Harvey’s father bursts into the room. He’s wearing his mining gear – streaked with dirt – a pitch-axe is brandished in his hand like a weapon. “Stop the wedding!” he roars. “She’s a witch! That girl is a witch!”_

_Their house is full of screaming people, faces contorted in anger. “Kill the witch! Kill the witch!”_

_“Wha – Dad, help me – Aunties – Aziraphale -”_

_But her family isn’t there. All she can see are screaming townspeople – her friends and classmates, teachers, shop owners. “Kill the witch! Kill the witch!” the chanting rises in volume until it’s pounding like thunder inside her head. It feels like her head is going to split open._

_Harvey grabs her by the arms, shaking her violently. His grip is bruising. And when he opens his mouth, it isn’t_ his _words, but_ old _words that spew out like bile –_ “thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”

_Other hands seize her, drag her through the mortuary._

_“Roz! Harvey! Stop! Help!” she cries, but they don’t hear her. They drag her towards an iron maiden – a terrifying casket, lined with nails. “No! Please!”_

_She can’t fight them. It feels like she is trying to fight the whole town. All of Greendale is turned against her. A wave of bodies shove her backwards, into the black shadow of the coffin._

_She screams as they push the heavy iron doors shut. Nails pierce her skin. Pain explodes in her arms and legs. Her back and chest. Her blood runs down her legs. She screams and screams for help. But through a narrow slit in the maiden’s head she can see. There is no one left. She is dying alone._

~AZIRAPHALE~

_They are in France. In the dream, he doesn’t find it strange that they should just get there from Soho in a snap of the fingers. He doesn’t need to hide his powers from the red-haired man, from Crowley. They are sitting out doors at a pretty little café. The girl, Sabrina, is looking through the books, a smile curling her ruby lips. She barely looks up at them. They might as well be alone, the two of them._

_The crepes, he is sure they are delicious, only he can’t remember eating them. He looks down at his plate, dismayed to find it empty. Crowley smirks and pushes his own plate – barely touched - over to him. “Please, go ahead.”_

_“Oh,” he looks up in surprise, “well, only if you’re sure –”_

_“I’m sure.”_

_Aziraphale raises the fork to his lips. A man runs by, screaming. In the distance, a crowd lets out a horrible cheer. For some reason, he is chilled by their merriment. A shadow falls across the day._

_The crowd is then running through the streets. Storming the café. They swallow their small table, and hands grab Aziraphale roughly, hauling him to his feet. His chair falls over._

_“Traitor!” someone shouts in French._

_“English-aristo spy!”_

_“Take him to the Bastille!” and then he remembers, all in a flash - the clothing, the time period_ – how –

_“No – oh no – oh please –” they don’t hear him. Of course they don’t. The mob is bloodthirsty. They begin hauling him out, onto the street. Someone throws a rotten vegetable at him. It smashes into the side of his face, wet and slimy. “Please, there’s been a mistake – I’m not – this isn’t – this can’t be happening –”_

_He is chained in a tiny cell. The only light trickles in from a small, barred window. Through which the only sight is the cruel blade of the guillotine, being winched into the air. He listens to it descend, rattling swiftly, and a wet thunk and a cheer from the crowd. And it is raised again._

_Aziraphale pales, looking at the heavy manacles which bind his wrists and ankles. The cell is dirty and cold and dark. In the shadows, ghosts moan and gibber and scream without end. “Please . . .” he whimpers, “I don’t belong here.”_

_“Of course you do,” a fit, broad-shouldered man says. He is wearing an expensive suit, and his smile is as wide and perfect as it is fake. Gabriel._

_He cringes back against his bindings. “Gabriel. Please – help me –”_

_“Help you? Of course I’m not going to help you,” he chuckles. “Aziraphale, what have I told you about frivolous miracles? Well, maybe this will knock some sense into your thick skull.”_

_“But they’re going to –”_

_“Discorporate you. Yes. In a marvellously efficient way, I might add. Ah, progress!” Gabriel rubs his hands together, grinning. “Of course, this won’t be the entirety of your punishment. Oh no, we will have words when you appear in Heaven.”_

_‘Words,’ in this context, do not mean ‘words.’ Aziraphale shudders, but Gabriel has already left._

_Outside, the guillotine rises and falls. People scream and cry and beg. More people cheer. The ghosts writhe around him, twisting out of the walls like invisible trees._

_“Please . . .” he says. But there’s no one left to hear it._

~CROWLEY~

_Crowley is sitting in an aeroplane. The seat is narrow and uncomfortable. But Rose is beside him, cradling their six-month old baby in her arms. She smiles at him, says something, laughing._

No . . . _he thinks. His heart lurches._ This isn’t . . . _He can’t think . . ._

_“I thought you were dead.”_

_She laughs at him, uncomprehending. The baby gurgles. The baby. Sabrina. It’s all wrong._

How dare you.

How

_He knows what comes next. The plane lurches as though hit by a sudden wave of heavy turbulence. It’s not that. Metal tears, shrieking, like a million nails on a million chalkboards._

_A bang, so incredibly loud, like being inside of a gun. Passengers screaming. They dip as sharply as if they’re careening over the top of a rollercoaster. Oxygen masks dislodge, bouncing in his face. He shoves them away. Beside him, Rose’s brown eyes – huge and terrified – she pushes Sabrina into his arms._

_“GO!” she screams as the engine explodes._

_GO, as her long blonde hair catches fire. The flames lick a violent halo around her head._

_GO, horrified, echoing through him. Sabrina in his arms. The plane disintegrating in fire and flaming shards of shrapnel all around him. The wind howling as bits of metal and glass fly by. The baby lets out a thin high wail._ _Rose is on fire._

_Crowley closes his eyes._

This isn’t real.

_And this is where the demon made her mistake. Because Crowley has relived this night so many times in his memory that he knows what it is. He knows it’s a memory. Not a dream. A nightmare._

_Sleep demon._

_And now that he recognizes it . . . the plane vanishes. He’s standing in a blank black space. His arms are empty. For a moment he feels a surge of panic, but then he remembers . . . his baby is grown, she’s a young woman now. None of this is real._

_But Rose is still beside him, in the darkness, burning. Her hair is a mass of fire. “What are you doing?” something asks through her mouth._

_“Don’t you dare,” he snarls. “Don’t you dare wear her face.”_

_The creature snickers, then ripples and resolves as the dark-haired demon. “Lower the wards and I’ll let you wake.”_

_He takes a deep breath. Even in a dream, he’s wearing his glasses. Now, he takes them off. Black wings erupt from his back. “Who do you think you are?”_

_The sleep demon hesitates. “. . . it doesn’t matter,” she says, “even you can’t escape Batibat’s illusions, Crawly the Snake.”_

_“Are you sure about that?”_

_He’s a black snake then, striking at her, but she is gone, and he’s lost in the realm of dream._

_No. Not lost. He knows where he is now. And he has intent._

_Crowley walks._

_* * * * *_

_She’s crying. She’s screaming and crying for help when he finds her. “Let me out please let me out please help me someone help –”_

_Crowley comes to stand before the iron maiden. He feels sick, but tells himself it isn’t real. None of these torments are real. There is a slot in the throat of the casket. He can only see her frightened eyes. “Sabrina.”_

_“Dad! Daddy, help me!” she cries, her voice ragged and broken._

_And he’s going to kill the sleep demon for this, he decides, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He forces himself to keep a calm tone. Lending to her panic will not help either of them. “I need you to calm down,” he tells her._

_“Daddy help me!”_

_“You’re dreaming right now.”_

_“Harvey – Harvey did this to me, Daddy, and Roz, and Susie –”_

_“No . . . no, sweetheart . . .” he comes closer, peers into the cruel device. “You’re asleep. You’re dreaming. This is only a nightmare.”_

_“What . . .”_

_“The sleep demon. Try to remember. We were attacked by a sleep demon. Her name is Batibat. She’s an old, wicked thing. Manipulates her victims in their dreams, right? She’s torturing you. Torturing all of us. But I need you to be strong now. Be strong for me, okay?”_

_“This isn’t real?” her eyes are wet with tears._

_“I can wake you up. I can wake you up now, Sabrina, but she’s in the house. And unless I miss my guess, Hastur and Ligur are outside, and they’re even worse. You’re going to have to run. DON’T let them catch you. Run to the Bentley. She’ll open for you. Don’t worry about the keys, alright? She’ll take you away-”_

_“I can’t just run away!” she cries, even locked inside the iron maiden, even being tortured, “what about you and Aziraphale?”_

_“I’m going to find the angel next,” he tells her. “But I need you safe.”_

_“Dad-”_

_“Don’t argue. Just run.” He snaps his fingers._

* * * * *

Sabrina bolted awake. She was lying on the icy, hard floor. Aziraphale was crumpled beside her. Crowley lay a few feet away, face down and drooling into the carpet. She crawled to him, trembling, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Dad? Dad, wake up! Please wake up –” 

Gripping one shoulder, she shook him. No response. “Please–”

“Meow?”

Looking up, Sabrina blinked tears out of her eyes. Her familiar, Salem, sat perched in front of her. “No, I know I need to run, Salem, but Dad- Aziraphale -” she crawled to the angel’s side, trying to shake him as well. No response. “I can’t just leave them here for that . . . Batibat.”

“You called, princess?” the demon asked, appearing behind her. One long clawed hand grasped Sabrina around the throat. She lifted her to her feet, choking her. “Tell me the incantation to release the wards and I’ll let dear old daddykins wake up. Otherwise . . . he’ll be tortured forever.”

_Hssssss!_

Batibat shrieked, dropping Sabrina. Salem clung to her leg, sinking his teeth into her ankle.

“My dad is stronger than you, Batibat,” she said, rubbing her neck, “he’s not fooled by your dreams. He’s going to wake up.”

“Yeah . . . wake up dead.”

She turned to the entrance way. A repulsive looking man, oozing filth, stood in their front hallway.

“Get it? Cause we’re gonna kill him.”

“Turns out the wards don’t work if the demon wot cast ‘em isn’t payin’ attention,” said a second man, who joined him. There was something distinctly reptilian about them. _Hastur and Ligur._

“What do you want?” she asked, glaring at them.

“Oh, just the usual things,” said Hastur, lighting a messy looking cigar. “Fortune, fame . . . killing your entire family.”

“Good times, good times,” his friend said.

* * * * *

_Crowley finds himself in a grimy prison. One small, barred window lets in barely any light. He’s confused, at first doesn’t know where he is, or why he’s here. Outside, people are shouting in French. It smells like 1793._

_Aziraphale is cowering in a corner of the cell. He’s dressed like an English aristocrat which might explain things . . . slightly. “It’s all a mistake, a terrible mistake . . .” he’s muttering to himself quietly, over and over again. He’s shaking, trembling. Crowley doesn’t understand. Why is_ this _the angel’s nightmare? Since when could you trap an angel in a people prison?_

_“What are you doing locked up in the Bastille?” he asks._

_Aziraphale looks up at him, bleary eyed, blinking, like he’s having trouble focusing. “What . . . who . . .”_

_Crowley sighs. Dream magic. Awful stuff. “Aziraphale, angel,” he steps closer, taking in the iron manacles binding the angel’s wrists. They’re too tight – biting into his soft flesh. “I thought you said you ran a bookstore, way back when?”_

_“I . . . I did, I, this happened before . . . wh –” he shakes his head in confusion, blinking rapidly. “_ Crowley! _Crowley what’s happening?”_

_“The sleep demon. You’re asleep, Aziraphale. This isn’t real.”_

_The angel’s shoulders slump, as though in relief. Then, outside, the sound of the guillotine and he hunches again. “No . . . no,” he squeezes he’s shut. “No, Crowley it is_ , it is _! You don’t understand they . . . they come for me, they drag me out there, they . . .”_

_“This really happened, didn’t it?” Crowley asks softly. Slowly, he crosses the cell. The angel is pale and trembling. He may be dressed like a rich twat, but he still can’t believe anyone would want to hurt his angel. Aziraphale is the least offensive person he’s ever met. He's shy and kind, soft and gentle. How could anyone want to hurt him?_

_“In a moment, the executioner is going to come in . . .”_

_“But, angel, you won’t die. Not really,” says Crowley gently._

_Aziraphale swallows, shakes his head. “I know, but . . . it . . . it . . .”_

_“Why don’t you just perform a miracle and go home?”_

_Aziraphale looks guilty. “I . . . I was reprimanded. For frivolous miracles. I’m not allowed . . . and Gabriel wants me to be punished.”_

_“Seriously?” Crowley sighs, more of a growl. He looks around at their grim surroundings – the dirt and blood streaked walls, the reek of piss and despair. This place is full of tortured spirits. He thinks of the witch’s cell, beneath the Academy. Oh . . . oh no._

_Crowley’s heart clenches in his chest. “This is . . ._ this is _why you didn’t want to be locked in the witch’s cell, isn’t it? It has nothing to do with . . . creativity, or not knowing to escape . . . This is your nightmare, this is . . . oh, angel. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”_

_“Crowley, none of this is your fault . . . it’s my own, stupid . . .”_

_“Stop.” Crowley shakes his head. He snaps his fingers and the manacles fall off Aziraphale’s ankles and wrists. “I should have been here. I should have . . .”_

_“What? You didn’t even know me, back then. Back . . . now,” outside the crowd cheers. He shudders._

_Crowley comes closer, he puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Angel, the house is full of demons,” he says. “We have to wake up.”_

* * * * * *

The demons loomed over Sabrina. She knelt on the ground between the unconscious Crowley and Aziraphale. Hastur smirked down at her. “How should we do it, Ligur? Fire?” he snapped his fingers. A bolt of lightning struck the house. The smell of acrid smoke filled the air. Something, somewhere, was burning.

“Nah,” said Ligur, handing him a long, hooked knife. “Cut the bitch.”

“Yeah . . . make Crowley pick up the pieces.”

Salem yowled and jumped at Ligur. The demon kicked him sharply and he was sent crashing into the wall. “Salem!” Sabrina screamed. She leapt up, but Hastur grabbed her, and pushed her backwards so that she stumbled. He raised the knife in front of her face.

The blade glittered in the darkness. Her eyes burned from the smoke. “Stay away from me . . .”

Hastur chuckled darkly. “Yeah, right . . .” he loomed over her, raising the blade. She brought her arms to protect her face. The blade sliced downwards . . .

White wings erupted between them. Bone and feather met the knife and it sank in to the hilt. Aziraphale cried out. Crowley lunged forwards, a snake, bashing Hastur out of the way.

The front doors banged open.

“Brother!”

“Aunties – DEMONS!” Sabrina screamed.

Around them, the house was shuddering and crumbling. Flaming chunks of plaster rained down from the roof. Zelda strode forwards, ignoring the chaos. She snatched a golden vase off a nearby shelf, tossing out the flowers and water with one swift shake. Her long red hair was whipped back by the storm. She raised her hands, and the vase, chanting.

Behind her, Hilda and cousin Ambrose charge Ligur, knocking the demon backwards so that he stumbled and tripped, falling through the Spellman’s coffee table and smashing it. Hilda grabbed one of their lamps and smashed the base of it down over his head.

“Aunties . . . is that . . .” Ambrose gasped, staring at the white wings sprouting from Aziraphale’s back. One was badly torn, bleeding dark blood which stained the white feathers. “Tell me it isn’t . . .”

“Not now, Ambrose!” said Sabrina. Salem was bundled in her arms. Around them, the house shook and the storm raged. Fire burned. Black smoke spread. They were all going to go down with it, if they didn’t act now.

Zelda’s chant finished. Batibat screamed as she was sucked into the vase. Zelda slammed a makeshift lid on top, turning it into an urn. Or a demon trap.

Only Hastur remained standing. He stared at the group – Aziraphale was crouched, bleeding from his wounded wing, but Crowley stood over him, golden eyes burning. Zelda strode forwards until she was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. If she was at all intimidated by the Archduke of Hell, she didn’t show it. Her gaze was nothing short of imperious. Hilda raised her hands, calling on the powers of atmokinesis – storm magic. A torrent of rain sluiced down from the night sky, dousing the fire that had burned along the roof of the house. A supernatural wind picked up, blowing the smoke away.

“You think you’re all so clever –” Hastur spat, but when he turned around Sabrina and Ambrose were standing there, blocking his way.

“You think the Dark Lord will be pleased to hear about this?” Crowley asked.

“You rat bastard, I’ll –”

“You’ll do nothing,” Crowley interrupted him. “Unless you want to be added to my sister’s collection.”

Zelda lifted the golden vase holding Batibat. She raised an eyebrow slightly.

Hastur stumbled backwards, shoving Sabrina and Ambrose aside. He made his way to the groggy, wincing Ligur, and hauled him half-up, still limping towards the exit. All the while he hurled curses at Crowley.

A moment later, Hastur and Ligur vanished.

The Spellmans sagged. Zelda struck Crowley’s arm. “I can’t leave you alone for a second,” she said, tossing the demon trap to Sabrina.

She caught it. “That was amazing, Aunt Zelda.”

“Mm," she sniffed, straightening her jacket. "Merely your basic demonic containment spell.”

Ambrose was still staring at Aziraphale. “That’s . . . an angel.”

Zelda sighed. Hilda just looked tired. Sabrina ran to his side, and she and Crowley helped Aziraphale to one of the arm chairs. His wings stayed out, maybe because one was badly torn open. She winced when she looked at it. He had done that to save her. _Again._ “Aziraphale, are you okay?”

“Mmm. Fine,” he whispered, but his face was bone-white and covered in a sheen of sweat. But he smiled at her took the wounded Salem from her arms. In a second, the cat sprang up, completely fine, meowing.

“Can’t you do that for yourself?” Sabrina asked, nodding at his wing.

Crowley looked concerned. He kept one arm firmly around him, even after they reached the chair, leaning over the arm rest. He studied the wing. “No ordinary blade could’ve done this . . .”

“It should still heal on its own,” said Aziraphale, though he didn’t look one hundred percent sure.

Crowley glanced at him, doubtfully. “Hilda, can you . . . ?”

“Oh, oh yes, oh dear . . .” she came closer, hesitating a bit when she took in the size of the wing. She reached forwards to touch it and then retracted her hand again, giggling nervously.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “It’s just a wing. _I_ have wings.”

Ambrose pulled Sabrina aside. “You’re all seeing this, right?”

“You’ve missed a lot.”

“Yes, I am sorry about missing your Dark Baptism, Cousin.”

“Oh, I didn’t go through with it,” she replied easily, enjoying the shocked look that crossed his face.

“Sabrina –” Ambrose looked properly scandalized. Everyone else was too busy, crowding around Aziraphale, to notice. “You mean to tell me you ran out on your Dark Baptism?” he whispered.

“Pretty much.”

“And your father has married an actual, literal angel of the False God?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded.

“I leave for one summer and . . . What in Merlin’s name is happening to this family?”

* * * * *

Aziraphale doubted that any of them, angelic or not, would be getting much sleep that night. Still, he let Crowley lead him back their large bed. His wings were still out – he couldn’t retract the wounded one and, though Hilda had done the best she could to clean and bandage it, he couldn’t hide his wince when he moved.

Hastur’s blade had bit through the leading edge of his right wing, near the hinge. The gash was a good five inches, and the pain radiated out from it in fine fiery lines, down and down, so that he fancied he could feel it even into his feathers. That was probably psychosomatic, but his entire wing alternately burned and ached. 

Crowley once again tried to offer him the bed. “Look, you’re hurt –”

Yes, and the last thing he wanted was to be deserted alone in the creaking, dark of the attic. He gave an experimental flutter of his wing and the pain erupted. Alright, that was stupid. He groaned, tipping forwards, and Crowley appeared at his side, helping to steady him. “It rather throws off one’s balance,” said Aziraphale.

“Well, leave it out, let it heal,” Crowley slowly circled him, eyeing the wing critically. He moved his hands along the unharmed portion of the ridge and Aziraphale shivered. The hand retreated. “Sorry.”

But he hadn’t _disliked_ the sensation. In fact, Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched his wings. Well, apart from Crowley, at their wedding, and that had been the first hint that the demon was not what he appeared to be. The gentle way in which he had undone the archangel’s bindings. The feel of his fingers carding through his feathers. Aziraphale felt himself blushing – and why was he thinking of all that _now_? He shook his head, _foolish angel,_ while Crowley helped him over to the bed.

Crowley helped him arrange his wounded wing, propped up against some pillows. It made it impossible to lie down completely, but he could relax against the pillows and headboard, at least.

“You’ll be okay,” Crowley murmured, arranging the cushions carefully behind the wing.

“Stay with me,” he said. Hoping he didn’t sound as shaken as he felt.

“. . . if you like, angel,” Crowley said. He yawned, and stretched out on the bed beside him, all long limbs sprawling across the black sheets. He tilted his head to look up at Aziraphale. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright . . . I’m not going to sleep.”

“Your nightmare . . .” he swallowed.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Aziraphale told him.

“But it was true, wasn’t it? I mean, it really happened.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “It was a long time ago,” he whispered. “I should have gotten over it.”

“No. Not with me shoving you in a prison. It’s no wonder you reacted as you did.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I don’t pay attention.”

“You _couldn’t_ have known,” Aziraphale repeated firmly, settling more deeply against the cushions. He was almost surprised by how calm he felt now, with the demon lying next to him. He found he wanted to sleep like this. With Crowley watching over him.

* * * * *

Sabrina and Ambrose sat huddled at the kitchen table, over steaming cups of tea. She wasn’t going back to sleep that night, and Ambrose was full of questions. “Is he safe?” he asked, leaning over the table. His brown eyes were dark with concern. “Are you _sure,_ Sabrina? They aren’t like the mortals think. Angels. More flaming swords and turning people into salt.”

“Not Aziraphale,” she told him. “You _saw_ him save me, Ambrose.”

He had to concede, nodding slowly, “he was _beautiful,_ cousin. But I still council caution.”

Salem hopped up on the table between them and meowed loudly in her cousin’s face.

Ambrose eyebrows rose in surprise. “Ah, but I see your familiar disagrees.”

“He healed Salem, too. You saw it.”

“Yes, an angel that heals familiars and saves witches?” Ambrose shook his head, rocking back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “What _is_ the world coming to?”

* * * * *

The morning light streamed through the small, circular attic window. Crowley stirred, only aware he had drifted off by the fact that he was now waking. His entire body felt warm and relaxed, except for his left arm, which was numb. Strange, that, but he was simply too relaxed to care. So it took another moment for him to realize what was happening.

Aziraphale was pressed up against him, the sleeping angel snuggled into his side. His head was nodding against Crowley’s shoulder, his face blissful in sleep. Crowley’s left arm was wrapped around him, pinned beneath the slumbering angel.

_Oh._

Aziraphale’s wounded wing was stretched out behind them, and Crowley shifted ever-so carefully to take a glance at it. Nothing had bled through Hilda’s bandages though, so he relaxed again, sinking back into the mattress, enjoying the weight and warmth of Aziraphale’s body against his own.

He could feel Aziraphale all against him – the soft roundness of his belly pressing into Crowley’s side made his mouth water with the desire to kiss and bite and lick him there. There was the beautiful curviness of the angel’s thighs and Crowley wanted nothing more than to run a hand down and firmly grab that plump ass. But he had _some_ restraint, thank you. So he merely lay there, relaxed and enjoying the warmth and the feeling of Aziraphale pressed so close.

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Perhaps he should feel guilty about even enjoying this much, passively, as the angel had clearly moved and shifted in his sleep, but . . . Crowley relished the feeling of his light blonde curls tickling his cheek and the heavy warmth of his body. The soft curves of him.

He slowly moved his hand, the one that was curled around the angel, trailing his fingers lightly up and down Aziraphale's side. It was barely a whisper of a touch along his cotton pajamas, but in his sleep, Aziraphale responded by snuggling even closer, burrowing into Crowley’s side. Eyelids fluttered briefly, before his face slipped against Crowley’s throat.

The demon couldn’t help but smile at the feel of Aziraphale’s soft puffs of breath, warm against his neck. Aziraphale’s unhurt wing was half-closed and came closer, as though to hold Crowley’s hand in place. He felt the tickle of the clean white feathers brushing against his arm and the back of his hand.

Beneath them, the house would be waking up. He listened for the familiar creaks and groans of their big staircases, bedroom doors opening and shutting. 

Aziraphale shifted against him, unconsciously nuzzling his neck. Crowley reflexively increased his grip around the angel, and Aziraphale curled more tightly into him.

It had been so long since he’d held anyone this way. And Aziraphale wasn’t _‘anyone.’_ Crowley _wanted_ to hold him. He wanted to breathe in the pure sunshine-smell of his wings. He wanted to listen to the soft, small sounds he made in his sleep. He could have fallen back asleep this way, happily . . .

But Aziraphale tensed against him, and Crowley knew he’d woken. The angel pulled away – slightly – staring at him. His wings arched up, even his wounded one. And Crowley began to unwind his arm and slide away, but Aziraphale surprised him by exhaling shakily . . . and grabbing his shoulder, holding him in place.

After arranging his wings behind him, Aziraphale lay against Crowley again, this time directly on top of him. Aziraphale’s face rested on Crowley’s chest. “No . . .” the angel murmured, his face pressed into the fabric of Crowley’s silk nightshirt, “please don’t stop. _Please_.” His voice sounded small and his wings trembled above him, casting Crowley in their drowsy, downy shadow.

Crowley frowned - at the desperation he heard in Aziraphale’s voice, not at his actions, which were more than welcome. He ran his hand along Aziraphale’s back firmly this time, following the curve of his spine up and down, up and down . . . He felt Aziraphale moan softly against him. “ _Please_ . . .” he said again and very quietly, _“I’m sorry.”_

“Angel, why are you apologizing?” Crowley kept stroking his back, rubbing circles and watching the wings above him tremble and shudder.

“No one . . . no one touches me,” he whispered. One of his hands curled into Crowley’s shirt. “I’m not . . . I’m not the type of person who gets held like this. I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t want . . . selfish . . .”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley said. He wrapped his other arm around Aziraphale’s waist, holding him more tightly in place. Immediately, Aziraphale relaxed, melting against him. Crowley was confused, but he wasn’t about to complain about getting to touch the angel more.

He moved the hand which had been rubbing his back up to the angel’s good wing, trailing along the spines of the wing, pausing to linger and rub each notch.

Aziraphale sighed deeply against him. “ _Oh ._ . .”

“Is that good?” Crowley trailed his fingers lightly though the feathers, and the wing came down, pressing against his hand, encouraging him. He dug into the wing more, scratching lightly at the soft down. He ruffled some feathers playfully, relishing the pleased sounds working their way from Aziraphale's throat.

Aziraphale gasped, “oh that feels . . .”

“Mmm?” Crowley leaned up a bit, so that he could press a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head. The curls tickled his face. He breathed in the scent of him deeply.

Aziraphale whimpered. “Crowley. Crowley, oh!” he sobbed and jolted backwards suddenly, wrenching himself out of Crowley’s arms. 

Had he gone too far? Aziraphale’s face was red and blotchy. He was shaking when he slipped off of Crowley, huddling on the far side of the bed. “Crowley . . . I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to pretend. I’m being selfish, so unforgivably selfish.”

“Pretend? Selfish? What are you talking about?” Crowley propped himself up on his elbows, staring at the angel in utter confusion.

Aziraphale’s wings slowly curled around him, the cut wing dragging clumsily over the bed, so that it brushed over Crowley, most likely against Aziraphale’s will. The angel’s next words were muffled. “You shouldn’t have to _pretend_ to like me. You’ve already been so kind. And I know you didn’t want this, and I . . . you don’t need to treat me like a human. I don’t deserve it.”

Crowley dragged himself up into a sitting position, now completely awake. He faced Aziraphale, but found himself looking at a wall of feathers. _What happened to you?_ he wanted to ask, but Aziraphale was so vulnerable, and they had been through so much already.

“I’m not pretending to like you,” he said, shuffling closer and trailing his fingers ever-so lightly across the closed wings. Aziraphale’s whole form shuddered. “Come on, angel, it’s okay. I have questions, but we don’t have to get into this right now.”

He heard Aziraphale sniffle.

“It’s okay. We’re okay, aren’t we?”

Slowly, the wings parted a little bit, inch by shaking inch. Aziraphale peered out from their depths, eyes wet. He took a shaky breath, but didn’t speak.

Crowley moved his hands from his wings, to pick up Aziraphale’s hands in his own. He rubbed them softly with his thumbs. “We’ll figure this out, together,” he said, “I promise.”


	11. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I just want to say a big thank you to everyone for being so understanding about the slow updates! I have had major brain fog this past month or so (and I’m sure I’m not alone!) Also, I just want to say that I’m sorry if I don’t always respond to your lovely comments (or sometimes it takes me a long time to respond!) sometimes my anxiety gets really weird about stuff like that. But I do really appreciate them. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Crowley and Aziraphale sat up in the large bed, facing one another. The angel was no longer looking at him, picking at an imaginary thread on the coverlet instead. “Crowley, I’m . . .”

“ _Don’t_ apologize.”

Aziraphale blinked and fell silent. His shoulders sagged. Crowley felt that he had done the wrong thing again, and frowned, wishing he knew what to say to put the angel at ease with him.

“Let me check that,” he said softly, indicating the bandages taped to the edge of Aziraphale’s right wing. He waited for the angel to nod, before gently peeling back the tap and lifting the bandages. The blood hadn’t soaked through, but the underside of the cloth was dark with clotted blood.

Aziraphale winced and twitched the wing. The feathers shivered and Crowley brushed them gently, smoothing them away from the cut. At his touch, Aziraphale sighed.

“. . . okay?” he asked. Aziraphale swallowed, and nodded.

Hilda was the healer of the family, but Crowley figured he could at least change bandages. _Actually . . ._ with a snap of his fingers he created fresh strips of linen and a roll of gauze. “A knife shouldn’t have been able to do this . . . ugh, Hastur that complete and utter—”

“It’s not so bad,” Aziraphale said quietly, “I think it’s healing.”

“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” Crowley concentrated on reapplying the fresh bandages, being careful not to snag the other feathers with the tape. He carded his fingers through them as gently as possible and Aziraphale’s wing shuddered and pressed closer into his touch. He wondered that he found it so endearing. He wanted to touch the angel more, but reined himself in. There was still a lot he didn’t understand about Aziraphale’s situation.

Still, as he finished smoothing down the bandage, he leant forwards and pressed a kiss to it. Aziraphale made a small needy sound and his hands leapt up, suddenly clasping Crowley’s own. Crowley froze, not sure if he had gone too far, or not far enough, as Aziraphale kept hold of him, not letting go. His hands were clammy and his breath rapid, nervous. “C-Crowley . . .” he kept silent and still, waiting for Aziraphale to continue. “. . . do you . . . is it _really_ okay, my being here?” 

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice sounded almost unfamiliar to himself, coming out husky and hoarse. “Yeah,” he repeated more firmly. “I lo- I like it.”

“But . . .”

“What can I say? You’ve grown on me, angel.”

“But . . . aren’t I a bit of a pain? Really?”

“What . . . ?” he smoothed out the good feathers on Aziraphale’s wing, enjoying the way the wing pressed closer into his touch, the subtle warmth and incredible softness of the feathers as they tickled his palm. Even so, he felt his brow crinkle as Aziraphale’s words echoed around in his skull. _Aren’t I bit of a pain. You don’t need to treat me like a human being. You don’t need to pretend to like me._ “Why would you say that?” 

“I - I don’t have a lot of experience with this. I was alone on Earth for so long . . .” he swallowed, “and then, well, _Upstairs_ , I – I was called back you see, about eighty years ago, um . . . but . . .”

Crowley brushed the side of his face gently, and Aziraphale leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. Some of the worried creases lining his forehead smoothed out.

_He looks so worried,_ Crowley thought. He wanted to say the right thing – the thing that would let Aziraphale know he was safe and could open up, could keep speaking about his past. A past which Crowley had more and more questions about.

“So what happened Upstairs?” he asked.

Well, that wasn’t it. Aziraphale winced and Crowley could sense him retreating, partly physically – he shuffled back a little way, putting a few inches between them, but it was more than that. There was something behind his eyes – a guardedness. He was back to not meeting Crowley’s gaze. “Oh . . . n-nothing much, _you know_ . . .”

Crowley _didn’t_ and waited for Aziraphale to continue for an uncomfortable minute. Aziraphale shifted slightly. “I – I was assigned as Gabriel’s assistant for a time . . . s-secretary, that sort of thing . . . that’s all.”

“The Archangel Gabriel?” Crowley’s brow creased. The name was familiar, sure, and Crowley must have known him once-upon-a-time, but that had been more than several lifetimes ago and his memory of the days before his Fall was foggy at best, like trying to dredge up a dream. Even his memory of _Falling_ was fragmented and misty. He liked to say he ‘sauntered vaguely downwards,’ but the truth was he didn’t remember much of anything before he was the snake in the Garden.

Gabriel was one of the top seven archangels, those rumoured to serve You-Know-Who directly, a Big Deal, as they say. But he didn’t like how Aziraphale had fallen so quiet _again,_ and he looked . . . pensive. Lost. Crowley knew he ought to say _something_ here, but once again he was left floundering. “And what . . . was that . . . like?”

He could have sworn Aziraphale’s complexion actually dropped a full shade of colour. “It was an honour,” he said, but the tone was all wrong – flat and automatic.

There was more to unpack there, but Crowley suddenly had the feeling he’d stumbled blindly into a minefield. “Right,” he said. He didn’t _think_ he’d sounded sarcastic – hadn’t meant to - but for one split-second Aziraphale’s eyes flashed to him – looking startled and wounded. “Angel . . .”

Aziraphale only nodded at him, but he looked so tired suddenly, as though everything had been drained out of him.

“Why don’t you sleep in?” Crowley asked. “Give that time to heal up.”

Aziraphale frowned, but he was still picking at the blanket and didn’t appear to be in a great hurry to move. “Well . . . I suppose . . . If you’re sure, that is . . .”

And that was another thing, Crowley reminded himself, he needed to find a way to convince Aziraphale that he didn’t need to gain his permission for every blessed thing. Or anything, actually. But the angel looked like he was about to pass out, so now was probably not the time for a lecture on independence.

“I’m sure,” he said, once again helping Aziraphale arrange his hurt wing with the pillows. “You need some rest. In fact, I suppose the whole house ought to be fairly quiet today.”

He couldn’t help tucking the angel in.

* * * * * 

Crowley padded downstairs, wrapped in a black dressing gown and slippers. Sabrina and Ambrose were in the kitchen, eating cereal and catching up. Salem leapt up onto the counter, meowing at them to share the milk. After a minute, Sabrina pushed the whole bowl over to him.

“Hey,” she looked up at Crowley. “How’s Aziraphale?”

And he was reminded again of how instantly his daughter had taken to the angel. Ambrose looked troubled, but stayed silent while Crowley shuffled across the kitchen, searching for coffee. “Wing seems to be healing. I told him to go back to sleep, though.”

Crowley frowned at the coffee, even though the pot was fresh and wouldn’t have dared to be empty or stale in the demon’s presence. The plants trembled as he walked by. His daughter and nephew certainly didn’t need to hear about the aborted snuggle session he’d just slipped away from, but he did want their insight into Aziraphale’s condition. _Condition?_ Was that the word for it?

He was having trouble getting his head wrapped around this – the angel seemed to like Earth. Even seemed to like Crowley, for that matter. But the sudden bouts of fearfulness . . . it couldn’t just be the Bastille. He doubted any one incident, no matter how traumatic, would affect an immortal so badly. But all he knew at this point was the angel had been on Earth for a time, and then given a good position in the Silver City. So what pieces was he missing?

Crowley slumped at the counter between the two kids, causing Salem to look up at him questioningly, licking the milk off his muzzle. Crowley scowled at him as well, and stared down at his cup of coffee without drinking it. “Do you . . . do you think I went too fast, asking him to share a bed with me?”

Ambrose’ eyebrows slowly crawled up his head. “You’re asking _us_ this?”

Sabrina gave her cousin a look, before patting Crowley’s arm sympathetically. “I don’t know . . . did he _say_ you went too fast for him?”

“He said he didn’t want me to go, last night . . .”

“. . . I cannot be hearing this about my uncle,” Ambrose muttered.

“Not like that! He just didn’t want to be alone after all that nightmare business . . . well, we are all rather shaken up. How did you two get on, anyway?”

“Fine,” said Sabrina, though she didn’t quite meet his gaze. He felt a stab of guilt at that. He’d left her and Ambrose chatting and taken the wounded Aziraphale upstairs . . . maybe he should have asked her how she was coping with her own nightmares. _The iron maiden . . ._ he thought he’d seen the last of those cruel devices centuries ago. Humans. Bloody monsters, when you got down to it.

“Really, I’m fine, Dad,” she insisted, catching his expression. “Harvey would never actually hurt me like that. But I am worried about Aziraphale.”

“Yeah . . .” he sighed and pushed the coffee, untouched, aside. “Me too.”

“Well, maybe you should take him out.”

“What?”

“Show him around town. Go on a date. Do normal people things.”

Crowley drummed his fingers along the countertop. His brow furrowed. He hadn’t made a lot of efforts to get to know the human population of Greendale, mostly because he was so busy with the Church of Night side of things. But Aziraphale _had_ seemed happy the other day, chatting with Rosalind Walker about books. And there was that weird bookstore Sabrina and her mates hung out at.

“. . . I s’pose that’s right. We could go out. I’ll ask him.”

Sabrina beamed at him, before kissing him on the cheek on her way out.

After she had left to catch the school bus, Crowley was alone with Ambrose – whom he still thought of as a kid, even if Ambrose was technically a couple hundred years old. Ambrose Spellman had the body of a young man in his twenties. But to Crowley, Ambrose would always be the orphaned child he and Hilda had found back in England.

“So, how is Europe these days?” 

Ambrose gave an amused huff. “Oh, wonderful Uncle, I was all set to return with harrowing stories of fantastic exploits. I was going to regale you all with my grand adventures - each more scandalous and salacious than the last - and yet you seem to have me defeated.”

“In the scandal category, anyway,” Crowley agreed.

Ambrose shook his head. “I mean . . . an _angel,_ Uncle?”

“Mmm.”

“And you, a demon.”

“I mean, I know.”

“But is that . . . wise?” 

“Prolly not,” Crowley shrugged in a what-can-you-do way and Ambrose gave him a despairing look. He reminded himself that Ambrose’s parents had been murdered by witch-hunters, and he had more reason than most to be made uncomfortable by their union.

“It’s meant to end the fighting between our sides,” he continued carefully, “it sanctifies a truce between Heaven and Hell, which is good for everyone - it protects us as much as it protects them. And more importantly than what our Head Offices have to say on the matter, _I_ _trust him,_ Ambrose. He’s already put himself in harm’s way to shield Sabrina not once, but twice. And besides that, he was attacked by the Weird Sisters at the Academy and didn’t so much as rustle a feather in self-defence. He says he’s never killed anyone, and I believe it.”

Ambrose hummed quietly to himself, apparently thinking this over. “Well, if you say so, Uncle. And what’s this business with Sabrina ducking out of her Dark Baptism? Was that the angel’s influence as well?”

“No, she hadn’t even met Aziraphale then,” Crowley shook his head. “You know Sabrina, she does what she wants. Besides, it’s a delay . . . nothing more.”

Zelda came down, apparently catching the tail-end of their conversation. “Indeed, Sabrina _will_ sign His book. Isn’t that right, brother?”

Crowley thought of sharp claws in the dark and horns; the hot sulphur-laced breath scorching his skin. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course she will. When she’s ready.”

Zelda nodded approvingly. But he thought of Sabrina, hanging out with her friends in this kitchen, or the living room, and how could he take that from her? Would he even be able to? And Aziraphale, he was more at home in the mortal world as well. If Crowley moved them all closer to Downstairs, what would that mean for the angel?

_It’s not like you have a choice . . ._ he reminded himself. The Dark Lord’s claws were so cold they burned. He didn’t exactly relish the possibility of having his arm half torn-out again, or being left for dead on the floor of the Greendale Wood. Hastur and Ligur were morons, but if they kept coming after him and his family, sooner or later he worried what the result would be.

* * * * *

Crowley passed the next few hours in the garden, whipping some lazy herbs into shape for Hilda, and waiting for Aziraphale. The angel came downstairs around noon, the wing apparently healed, at least enough that he was able to tuck it away.

Crowley came inside, wiping the dirt off his hands, to find Aziraphale in the living room with Ambrose, talking about graphic novels. Well, Ambrose was doing most of the talking, trying to sell Aziraphale on someone named Neil Gaiman. The angel looked confused, but was apparently willing to listen.

“Are you two getting on, then?” he asked.

And Aziraphale looked up and smiled so brightly it made his heart flip. That smile, it tugged at him so fiercely he found he couldn’t help smiling back. “Do you want to go out?” he asked.

Aziraphale tilted his head slightly.

“I thought I could show you around town. Maybe we could meet Anathema for coffee . . . I sort of owe her an apology, don’t I?” he grimaced, thinking of how the young witch had (like Sabrina) made a connection with Aziraphale before him. And picked up on his liking tea. And then Crowley had yelled at her and kicked her out.

He was not looking forward to the grovelling he was going to have to do to get back in her good graces. But Aziraphale’s eyes lit up at the mention of her name, and Crowley realized that he was making the right decisions, for once. “I thought maybe at that bookshop downtown?”

Aziraphale clapped his hands together joyfully. “Oh yes, please! That would be simply wonderful!”

Crowley offered his arm, struggling to keep his grin from stretching into a _completely_ goofy expression. He noticed Ambrose regarding the two of them. His nephew’s expression shifted subtly from concerned and contemplative to a soft smile. 

“ _What_?” Crowley asked.

“Why nothing, Uncle. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy.”

Crowley felt himself blushing and tried to hide it behind a fierce scowl. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered, without heat. Ambrose chuckled, shaking his head and gathered up his comics.

At the same time, Crowley slid his hand against Aziraphale’s, threading their fingers together. The angel enthusiastically gripped his hand back, and he found the scowl disintegrating as he was smiling again.

* * * * *

Cerberus bookstore and café was open and doing bustling business. Anathema was already waiting for them at a table when they arrived, wearing a big peasant skirt and black shawl. She stood and smiled at Aziraphale, wrapping the angel in a big hug. And smirked at Crowley. _“You. Idiot.”_ She mouthed silently, over the angel’s shoulder. Crowley rolled his eyes, but nodded. 

“Aziraphale! It’s so good to see you again! I hope everything is going well?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you, my dear.”

“And this mean, crotchety old bastard is treating you alright?” 

Crowley groaned. “Oh, come on, book girl. I said I was sorry.”

She eyed him evenly, sitting back down at the table and motioning for Aziraphale to sit next to her. To Crowley, she said, eyes narrowing: “You didn’t. Actually.”

He threw up his hands. “Fine. _I’m sorry._ You were right. Angels drink tea. I was wrong about . . . everything.”

“Speaking of,” she said, gesturing to the line for coffee and treats at the rear of the building. “Make yourself useful. Go get stuff for us.”

Crowley heaved his shoulders in a greatly put-upon sigh, but stopped his grumbling when he saw the worry beginning to crease the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes. “No, no,” he said hurriedly, “I’m sighing at _her,_ not you, angel.”

Anathema stuck her tongue out at him.

“What do you want, anyway?”

“Something sweet.”

“Tsk. Fine. And you, angel?”

But the worried look hadn’t quite left Aziraphale’s gaze. He hated that he had put it there, again with his carelessness. But he grumbled and sniped with Anathema all the time. It was habit. They fought, but they always made up. She was nearly like another little sister to him. “Oh, I - I’m fine, I don’t –”

“ _Angel_ ,” he said gently. Crowley was the only one still standing, and he put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. He thought of how the angel had enjoyed Hilda’s blueberry pancakes and reasoned that he might very well go for something sweet as well. “I’ll get you something mmm . . . how about chocolate?”

He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face from this angle, but Anathema, who could, nodded at him ever-so-slightly. “Oh, Doctor Cee makes some amazing chocolate chip cookies,” she said. “See if he’s got a fresh batch. Oh, and some hot chocolate! That’s what we need on a chilly November day. Wouldn’t you say, Aziraphale?”

“Oh . . . I . . . well, that would be rather lovely.”

“Alright then,” Crowley bent and brushed his lips barely along the top of Aziraphale’s curls, before turning and making his way to the line.

Glancing behind him, he could see Anathema begin to chat more with the angel, her hands flitting around like little birds. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes again – not that anyone would be able to see behind his dark glasses. So Aziraphale had a friend. That was alright then.

* * * * *

Anathema leaned over the little table, touching his hand gently. Her eyes were dark behind her large glasses. “Is he _really_ treating you alright, Aziraphale? You can tell me.”

“Oh y-yes. He’s been more than kind. Really, more than I ever dared to hope for. More than I . . .” he caught himself. It would be awful to dump all of his fears on this poor young woman. And he was being frightfully rude, again, only speaking about himself. “But how are you, my dear? And the children?”

“I’m fine. Blackwood’s being a prick, as usual, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. And the kids have been doing better, actually. The Weird Sisters have eased up a lot and they were the worst of the bullies.”

He was relieved to hear that. He had liked the school – in a way. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did Crowley call you ‘book girl?’”

“Oh _that_?” she laughed, “well, I sometimes work part-time in the Academy’s library. I’ve been helping them catalogue a special collection – they’ve got all of these old books of prophecy. I’m sure it sounds silly –”

“Oh? Prophecies? No, not at all! Actually . . .” he couldn’t disguise his obvious interest and quickly told her about the bookstore he’d used to run – and how he had collected rare books of prophecy.

Anathema smiled, delighted. “Would you like to see ours, then? I mean, we could find a time when Blackwood’s not there – I’ll sneak you in.”

“Really?” he asked, sitting up even straighter. Oh, he would dearly love to see what sort of prophetic texts a place like the Academy had managed to collect. Perhaps they would even have the few that had managed to evade Aziraphale during his days as a collector – Agnes Nutter’s book, and something called the _Demonomicon_ (though he wasn’t entirely sure the latter was real.) 

Crowley finally came back, with a tray of hot chocolate (for them) and a black coffee for himself.

“You forgot the cookies,” Anathema scolded.

“Doctor Cee’s bringing them over. What are we talking about?”

“Prophecies!” said Anathema.

“Ugh,” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “No such thing.”

“But –”

“Nope.”

She looked at him. “You’re seriously telling me demons,” she pointed at him, “angels,” Aziraphale, “witches,” herself, “are all real. But oh no, not prophecies, _that’s_ too far? _That’s_ where we draw the line?”

“Yep,” said Crowley, grinning as she scowled at him. “Look, it can’t happen,” he said. “Free will an’ all that. No point in us demons mucking about if everything humanity was going to do was already decided.”

“Oh, but they are such _fun_ though,” said Aziraphale. He thought that, considering the company, it was best not to bring up the prophetic books of the Bible. “Take . . . Nostradamus, for instance.”

“Right?” Anathema sat up. “And a lot of his prophecies came true –”

Crowley snorted. “More like, they’re all so vague you can fit them ‘round any current events you like.”

“Oh, but that’s part of the fun!” said Aziraphale. “Like a game – it’s – it’s _interactive.”_ When looked up from his cocoa, he found Crowley smiling softly at him.

“Well . . . alright then,” said the demon.

“Alright what?” Anathema asked.

“Just thinking of our next family game night. Get a bunch of prophecies, put them in a hat, everyone draws one and has to reinterpret it to fit actual events. You’re coming too, book girl.”

The owner came over with their cookies. He was a pleasant, smiling man who apparently had a penchant for dressing up like Dracula. “Why, hello – you’re Crowley Spellman, right? Hilda’s brother? She talks about you all the time. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Right. Well, this is my husband, Aziraphale. And this wretched girl is Anathema.”

“Well. Please to meet you both. Those are some . . . interesting names.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Coming from a man calling himself Doctor Cerberus?”

He laughed goodnaturedly. “Fair enough.”

“You have a lovely shop,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, well, thank you!”

“And a kind and loving aura,” supplied Anathema.

“What a . . . nice thing to say.”

After he moved on to help other customers, Crowley shook his head at her.

“What?”

“Stop baiting the mortals!”

“Mortals know about auras, Crowley –”

He was about to make some sort of retort to that, when they were interrupted by a low moan. Aziraphale had just bitten into one of the chocolate chip cookies. It was gooey and warm and sweet and he just couldn’t help himself.

He blushed, swallowing, when he saw Crowley staring at him. He was about to apologize, when it dawned on him that Crowley didn’t look angry, or irritated by him. In fact, Crowley slowly reached across the table and covered Aziraphale’s left hand (the right was holding the cookie) with his own.

* * * * *

After they said goodbye to Anathema, Crowley took Aziraphale across the street to see a film. Since the last movie Aziraphale had seen was _Rebecca_ starring Laurence Oliver and Joan Fontaine, Crowley hoped a modern film wouldn’t be overwhelming for him.

They found one about a woman opening a bookshop in England in the 1950s, which was alright. The ending was depressing as all Hell (and Crowley should know) but the angel apparently enjoyed it. Even though he did refer to it as a ‘cinematographic picture show’ which made Crowley choke on his drink.

They sat in the back row and at some point, Aziraphale’s hand brushed against his. Crowley slid their fingers together and Aziraphale leaned closer against him. 

It was worth it, just for that. Crowley smiled in the darkness of the movie theatre.

* * * * *

THE SILVER CITY

Archangel Gabriel was not having a good day. The Heavenly Host had been using the pause in their eternal war to regroup and grow stronger– as had been the plan. However, there appeared to be a slight hitch. Because the whole idiot scheme to get Aziraphale married off to a demon lord, then wait for said demon to torture and destroy him, thus giving Heaven a righteous reason to wreak holy vengeance upon the devils and the entire world below . . . kind of depended on the demon torturing and killing Aziraphale.

Which didn’t appear to be happening.

Demons! How was it you couldn’t even trust them to be bad?

At first he hadn’t been concerned – Aziraphale had been locked away, beyond some warded institution, which even the gaze of the angelic seers could not penetrate, and Gabriel had been confident the demon was taking care of things. However, just now, one of his informants had caught sight of the angel and demon out in the mortal world. And no one was being tortured at all.

They were just . . . doing things. Mortal things. He grimaced at the memory of Sandalphon throwing down a stack of grainy black and white photographs their surveillance team had obtained. Crowley and Aziraphale. Going for drives in the country. Consuming food. (Ugh.) Going to the movies. (Gabriel only had a vague idea of what that meant, and he didn’t approve of it.) 

Michael appeared at his right side. Her arms were crossed, her expression carefully neutral. “There’s still time.”

“ _Ye-es,_ Michael,” Gabriel said, smiling. Gabriel was always smiling. He felt he had perfected it. “ _However,_ the Adversary has held this land – this one, tiny, almost insignificant piece of the human world for several thousand years. And now, for the first time, for reasons even the Metatron doesn’t know, his hold on it is weakening.”

The archangel waved his hands and the air shimmered, changing into a diagram of the town of Greendale. Demonic energy patterns showed up as waving red lines. Gabriel gestured again, and the graphs began to shift, showing the passage of time below. The pattern was definitely changing – the Devil’s power was waning.

Obviously, this was because Heaven was destined to win. But Gabriel wanted to be down there _now_. Smiting the wicked and possibly setting some others on fire – you know, _winning._

Absolute, incontestable glory for Heaven was so close it was driving him mad. Like something he should just be able to reach out and take.

The _itch_ of it.

“We should be taking advantage of this, Michael. Strike while the iron is hot. As they say.”

“I don’t disagree,” she said, “after all, wars are meant to be won. Not avoided.”

Michael studied the charts, which were now glowing and spinning slowly around her.

“But it seems Aziraphale has failed in even this holy task . . .”

For a second, Gabriel’s smile slipped. He hated his physical corporation. Oh, it was attractive. And powerful. But his blood felt hot in his veins. And he no longer had Aziraphale to work out his frustrations on. “I wonder if he begged that demon for mercy – he’s dishonoured us all.”

“The only one dishonoured is Aziraphale,” said Michael. “But the Metatron states Heaven cannot be seen to be the first to break the truce.”

Gabriel stared at the screens and, with an irritable shake of his head, vanished them. The gleaming blank white floors of Heaven once again surrounded them.

“Well!” he said, clapping his hands, and turning back to Michael, smile firmly in place. “We won’t be seen, then.”

“You’re thinking of sending in the Order?”

“They’ll perform some . . . much needed reconnaissance. And they’re disciplined. I trained them myself.”

Michael nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

* * * * *

That evening, by some miracle, Crowley and Aziraphale were the only ones home. Hilda had gone for her part-time shift at the bookstore, Zelda had volunteered to act as midwife for someone in the coven, Ambrose had a date with a handsome young warlock at the gentleman’s club and Sabrina was hanging out with her mortal friends. Even Salem was off catching mice, or whatever he did in his spare time.

As was becoming their tradition, Crowley opened a bottle of wine and they sat on the couch by the fireplace. Aziraphale had been reading one of the books Roz had loaned him, but he put it down and smiled up at Crowley when he entered.

“You don’t need to stop reading on my account,” Crowley assured him, passing him a glass of red.

“Oh no, no, I like this,” said Aziraphale, as Crowley used a minor miracle to turn their old fashioned radio on. It was staticy for a moment before the dial (turning itself of course) found a station playing something instrumental. He settled beside the angel, leaning back with a contented sigh.

“I hope you enjoyed today.”

“Oh, very much so, yes. It’s a lovely village.”

_Lovely?_ The mortal half, which they’d spent the day touring, maybe. Crowley was always somewhat aware of the sulphuric tinge to the air, the brimstone leaking out of the old mines, up in the hills. The mines leading down into more and more eclectic and labyrinthine mazes. How many humans had his sort driven mad in this town, over the centuries? Putnam’s poor uncle was just the latest in a line stretching back nearly to Adam and Eve.

Nah, that didn’t bear thinking about, not tonight, with Aziraphale being happy and relaxed and the fire going, and the wine being a particularly pleasing vintage. _Push that other rot out of your brain, Crowley_ , he told himself.

“Sometimes, I do miss England, though,” he admitted. “London, especially.”

“But . . . ah, aren’t your . . . well, your ‘people’ here?”

“You mean the other demons?” Crowley snorted. “Sure. You’ve seen how well I get along with them.” He glanced at Aziraphale, who was staring at his wine, seemingly lost in thought. Crowley slowly slid closer, draping an arm casually (not casually at all) across the back, like a kid trying to score at the movies.

Aziraphale sat there so primly and with such annoyingly good posture they weren’t touching, anyway. But they were close enough _to_ touch, should the angel changed his mind. “Can I ask you something?”

Aziraphale looked at him (a little guardedly, he thought.) “Oh. Of-of course, dear. Crowley. Husband.”

“Husband. Right . . .” Crowley frowned. “That’s thing. I think we need to talk about. You know. This morning.”

Aziraphale turned pink, and it would have been cute if he hadn’t seemed distraught. He hurriedly raised the glass to his lips, taking a long sip of wine. “Oh. I. Yes. That. Uh… Very unprofessional of me, w-wasn’t it?”

“Unprof . . .” Crowley sputtered. He sat up then, gently taking the wine glass from Aziraphale and setting it on the nearby coffee table, so that he could take the angel’s hands in his own. “Angel, being married to me isn’t a _career_.”

A small wrinkle appeared on Aziraphale’s forehead. “No, but . . . well, you know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t. Angel, I _don’t_ know what you mean. That’s the problem.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s hands twitched in Crowley, and he had feeling the angel would have been worrying them or picking at something if he let go. He squeezed them gently, and after a moment Aziraphale squeezed back. But he was biting his lip and his eyes appeared misty. “Oh, I’m sorry! I – I’m not being clear. I’m not. I’m so bad at this – this is all my fault –”

“No, angel, come on,” Crowley rubbed Aziraphale’s hands and was relieved that a bit of the tension went out of the angel’s face. “We just need to have a conversation about things. Just a talk. That’s it.” He said it as gently, as cajolingly as he could.

Aziraphale managed a brief, worried smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and a stiff nod. Crowley had the horrible feeling that, regardless of whether or not he _liked_ him, the angel didn’t quite _trust_ him. He wasn’t sure what about this was so upsetting – maybe by ‘talk,’ he thought Crowley was going to run off a list of complaints about him or something?

“Listen,” he said gently, “I think we both know I’ve made too many assumptions about you in the past, and I don’t want to do that again. That’s all. So I just want to talk.”

Aziraphale nodded again, but was completely silent. Eyes downcast.

“. . . with you,” Crowley prompted.

More silence.

Alright, he supposed he would have to get the ball rolling. “I mean, we’re married. Technically. To stop the war from happening. But that doesn’t mean we have to . . . you know . . . I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Aziraphale lifted his eyes to watch him. Those soft blue-grey eyes. They were studying him, but the angel remained silent.

Crowley took a deep breath. “. . . I’m talking about _sex,_ okay?”

“Sex?” Aziraphale repeated. His mouth curled in a grimace and he squirmed slightly. “I’m not . . . I understand if I’m not pleasing to you, Crowley. But I could still perform my duties –”

“Okay, see, this, this, this is - when you say ‘duties’ like that it kind of freaks me out.”

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled further.

“It’s not _a job,_ I said! That’s my whole point. Besides, what do you mean ‘not pleasing?’”

“I’m . . . Well, I’m ugly.”

“You’re not ugly.”

“ _Crowley,”_ he said it, like Crowley was teasing and he wanted him to stop and be serious.

Crowley stared at him in disbelief. Aziraphale was beautiful. He was literally an angel, and was the only one Crowley had ever met who lined up with how humans pictured them – with his soft curls and round, cherubic face. When he was happy, he lit up the entire room. He thought of how the angel had won everyone over, even Zelda. Everyone seemed to be charmed by Aziraphale. Everyone except the angel himself.

“Aziraphale.”

He moved his hands to Aziraphale’s arms, rubbing them gently through his jacket, until the angel looked at him again. “You’re not ugly,” he repeated, more firmly. “I just don’t want you to do something because you think it’s your job, or your duty, or should be done because of some holy – or unholy - edict. But then, you seemed to like – this morning – you seemed to enjoy me touching you.” He paused, but Aziraphale only looked more confused.

“But that’s not sex.”

“Well, no . . . and we don’t have to do anything more than that. If you want. But. Aziraphale, do you like it when I touch you?”

Aziraphale looked at him, briefly searching his . . . his sunglasses. And he looked so troubled. He was looking for reassurance and he couldn’t even see Crowley’s expression. And wasn’t that something his angel had asked him last night – if he would take his glasses off? And once again, Crowley knew he hadn’t been paying attention. He’d only ever considered the glasses in terms of how they made _him_ feel – safe, protected, like a layer of armour. But that wasn’t doing Aziraphale any good. 

As soon as the realization struck him, he took the sunglasses off. Aziraphale seemed surprised, but his relief was palpable. Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes again, this time knowing Aziraphale could see him, too. “Aziraphale, I _like_ you. I was having fun this morning, but I don’t want to do that if you’re not also enjoying it.”

Aziraphale was searching his eyes – apparently not put off by their snake-ness – but he still looked confused. “Fun . . . but, for you? Why would it be fun for you? I was being . . . needy. And soft. And . . .”

“When I kissed you, that’s when you pulled away,” said Crowley. “Did you not like that?”

“N-no, I did. I did! That’s what’s so _wrong_ about it . . .” Aziraphale’s eyes filled with tears.

“Um.” Now it was Crowley’s turn to be confused. He leaned forwards, so that their foreheads touched. Aziraphale sniffled, but he didn’t flinch, or pull away. Crowley slowly wrapped an arm around him, guiding him against him, and Aziraphale slid over, leaning against his chest, his head curled against Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley ran his hand down Aziraphale’s back. “Do you like this?”

“. . . yes . . . very much.” Aziraphale groaned, and he squeezed his eyes shut, raising his hands to cover his face.

“Now, now, none of that, angel . . .” said Crowley gently. With the arm not currently wrapped around the angel, he took one of those hands and drew it back down. Aziraphale, sniffing and blinking, let him. “What’s so wrong about you enjoying this?”

“But it’s – it’s a – it’s a _human_ thing!” he finally spat out, shuddering against Crowley. He sounded horrified with himself. For a second, Crowley thought he was going to pull away, but after wriggling for a moment, he only pressed closer to the demon, as though he were trying to burrow into him.

“So?” Crowley asked, blinking and perplexed. “We do all sorts of human things around here.” He had his chin resting on the angel’s head now. Again. He wanted to kiss him, but just kept rubbing his back instead.

“But I’m _not_ human, I’m an angel. A- a principality, even. I should be _giving_ and in giving, I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t need any – it’s, why, it’s soft.”

Crowley wrinkled his brow, trying to follow the flow of Aziraphale’s disjointed words. “Ah, oh-kay, but . . . Maybe I _like_ soft,” he said. “Big fan of soft, me.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. He tentatively raised a hand and curled it in the black fabric of Crowley’s shirt. “Can – can we do more human things?”

“Uh, sure?” Crowley’s brain cycled through ‘human things’ – File their taxes? Join a curling team? Go to the laundromat? Sign up for a Netflix account? – “Like what?”

“L-like, well, kissing, for-for example?”

_Kissing?_ Crowley took a breath to say that he wasn’t aware of humans owning a patent on it, actually, but then decided starting an argument at this point would be stupid, when he could be snogging his angel in front of the fire instead. _Things to unpack later,_ he decided, disentangling them just enough so that he could cup Aziraphale’ face in his hands. His skin was cool and damp from crying and Crowley closed the space between them, pressing his lips softly against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale responded softly, shyly, his hands fluttering like trapped doves in the space between them, until Crowley, smiling against his lips, took them and held them. “You . . . you can touch me, you know,” he said. “If you want to.”

Aziraphale, in a sudden burst of bravery, initiated their next kiss. Crowley hummed encouragingly, licking his bottom lip. The angel responded by opening his mouth to the demon and deepening the kiss. Crowley couldn’t help the groan that rose, rumbling out of his chest and tugged him even closer, so that Aziraphale ended up half on his lap.

Aziraphale was shivering, but his hands had finally settled in Crowley’s hair, and _that_ was a feeling – the light tug of his fingers in Crowley’s hair seemed to directly correspond to his rapidly hardening cock, that was straining painfully against his tight pants.

“Ngk. Gck,” he groaned again, sucking on Aziraphale’s lips, before switching to pepper his face with softer kisses – his wet cheeks, his round nose and fluttering eyelids.

_Slow down, slow down,_ he told himself, but his fingers seemed to be operating without his input, dancing down to tug loose the angel’s silly tartan bow tie. He pulled the material free, tossing it somewhere – carpet? Coffee table? - And set to work nuzzling the pale soft skin of the angel’s throat. “Thisss ssstill okay, angel?” his voice had taken on a hoarse quality, and he found himself hoping the hissing didn’t freak Aziraphale out.

The angel placed a hand firmly on the back of his neck, holding him closer. “Oh. Yes. Please.”

Crowley grinned, nibbling and sucking on the angel’s neck. And alright, maybe they _were_ being very human now – necking like human teenagers on their parent’s sofa – ha – and he had just enough awareness left to hope the kids didn’t walk in, that would be a little awkward. But with the needy, keening noises Aziraphale was making, he wasn’t about to stop. His hands had moved beneath Aziraphale’s cream-coloured jacket, and he found himself frustrated by the waistcoat.

His pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s ear, while his fingers worked on the buttons, murmuring, “I could kiss you all over like this.”

“R-really?” Aziraphale squeaked. Crowley pulled back a little to look at him. He was blushing a very attractive shade of pink and his eyes were bright _bright_ blue. “I mean – you – you _would_? I don’t . . . you’re not . . .” he was gripping Crowley’s arms now, gripping them hard, like the living room was an ocean and Crowley was a life preserver. Crowley stilled for a moment, waiting for him continue.

Aziraphale was blinking and finally, looked at him wonderingly. “This is real?”

In answer, he leaned in again, kissing him. Then drew back to see his face.

“And you’re . . . you enjoy it too? Kissing me?”

“Kissing you is great . . . brilliant, angel. Best thing I’ve ever done.”

Aziraphale held him back for a moment more, and Crowley didn’t push. The angel was studying his face again, his eyes, now bare to him and golden, the pupils probably blown wide. He licked his lips. “And I don’t . . . this doesn’t . . . I don’t disgust you?”

“Oh angel,” he stared at him. “No. Never. You’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale’s lip quivered. Tears started rolling down his cheeks. Crowley watched in dismay. Aziraphale’s arms dropped, and Crowley gathered him close again, just holding him. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, angel, did I say some-”

“No, no, I’m sorry I –”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“No, I just . . .” Aziraphale grabbed his face then, and kissed him firmly, pushing him backwards into the sofa. Crowley was so surprised, he allowed the momentum to carry him backwards, so that they were lying on the couch together, limbs tangled, Aziraphale kissing him and crying at the same time.

* * * * *

GREENDALE FOREST

Ambrose and Lucas had left Dorian’s just after midnight. They were pleasantly drunk, ambling along, when Lucas suggested a shortcut through the woods. “Ah . . . no, no I think not,” said Ambrose, with a smile, shaking his head.

Lucas laughed at him. “What? You’re not scared of the ghosts, are you?”

“The Greendale Thirteen are no joke, my friend . . .”

Lucas was a warlock himself, so Ambrose felt comfortable speaking to him about the thirteen witches who had been hanged in those woods, and were said to be there, still. But Lucas only laughed at his caution. “Oh, come on, Ambrose! Live a little – what do you think is in there? Bears?”

“Well . . .” Ambrose considered, but Crowley had warned them all to stay out of the woods, except for on official Coven business, and the old snake, lackadaisical as he was, knew what he was talking about. “Maybe I just don’t trust your so-called short-cut.”

Lucas took his hands, tugging him closer to where the old black boughs of the trees shivered over the road, leaves shaking in the night wind. The air was colder now, a definite chill that felt like snow was probably in the forecast. He shivered. “Luke, dear, sweet, Luke, I want to get home and enjoy a nice glass of brandy by the fire . . . and you.”

“And through the woods is faster,” Lucas insisted, tugging him closer. Ambrose, still tipsy, swayed and fell into him. Lucas held him up, chuckling. “I missed you this summer,” he said, brushing his lips against Ambrose’s jaw.

Ambrose sighed, leaning into kiss him more fully on the mouth. Reluctantly, he allowed Lucas to lead him further into the wood. They were on a trail, and the moonlight was shining down on them through the branches almost as bright as a streetlight. It felt safe.

“You could have come with me, you know,” he said, trying to keep his tone jovial. A bit of hurt may have snuck in there, though. He had a fine summer in Europe, and both he and Lucas were open about taking other lovers, when they weren’t together. But he would have rather they had been together. He would have rather had Lucas.

“Father Blackwood had business for me here . . . work for the coven . . . or I would have,” Lucas shrugged.

“Is that so?”

“I’ve never even been to Europe.”

“There’s a whole wide world out there, Lu . . .” something crunched in the woods behind them and Ambrose jumped.

Lucas batted him playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, man, you gonna jump at every noise?”

Ambrose froze, looking around, trying to peer through the shadows of the trees – but they were inky black in the night and did not give up their secrets. “There’s something out there.”

“Yeah,” Lucas rolled his eyes, “a squirrel or maybe a terrifying bunny rabbit. Ooh.”

“Oh, _shut_ up,” Ambrose grumbled, shoving him forwards a few steps. “Let’s just carry on, shall we?”

“Did you know your accent gets stronger when you’re pissed at me?”

“It does _not.”_

Something crackled and snapped. He heard it even over Lucas’ laughter. And there was a second one – he heard dry twigs breaking and something forcing its way through the bracken. The wet sliding crunch of boots on the fallen leaves and mud. His throat dried up. This time it wasn’t a squirrel. “Lucas.”

“. . . Yeah, I heard it,” Lucas stood next to him.

The scrubby wooden trail forked in front of them and, as the boys watched, two figures emerged from the forest on either side. They moved through the trees and bushes without stumbling and Ambrose got the sickening feeling that the twigs snapping had been done purposely – whoever these people were, they _wanted_ to frighten them.

The strangers stepped onto the trails and were lit perfectly by shafts of moonlight. The moon was silvery on white skin and blonde hair. A boy and a girl, they looked like teenagers – perhaps early twenties – but Ambrose himself was proof that a young appearance could be deceiving.

They wore a sort of uniform – the boy in a dark sweater vest over a pressed shirt and tie, and dark slacks, the girl in a matching blazer and pleated skirt. Her long pale yellow curls fell down her back. They would have looked unassuming on a crowded street, but in the middle of the woods, past midnight? Smiling?

Ambrose glanced at Lucas. He worried, for once, his earlier joking attitude dissolved.

Ambrose cleared his throat and took one tentative step forwards. “Alright, so who the Heaven are you, then?”

The girl’s smile widened. Ambrose thought, _it actually looks painful, to smile like that._ _And unnatural._

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” asked the girl. She had a child’s knapsack, from which she pulled a cruelly hooked knife. “We’re innocent.”

“Pure,” her partner agreed. He had a matching smile. “Selected by the Archangel Gabriel himself to bring God’s love to this forsaken town.”

“And you do that with knives, do you?” asked Ambrose.

Lucas touched his elbow, breathed in his ear, in a whisper: “ _witch-hunters_.”

Gooseflesh crawled up the back of his neck. _Witch-hunters._ Witch-hunters. Of the sort who had murdered his parents, killed them in cold blood in London, long ago. Back, before Crowley and Hilda had found him, a crying orphan in an alley somewhere.

Horror and hatred curled in his gut like poison – at the same time something was urging him to look closer. To see more.

“. . . what do you mean, the Archangel Gabriel?”

It was something, mostly to keep them talking. But Ambrose was also listening keenly, as he silently urged Lucas back. As he tried to remember the incantation for teleporting – too bad he couldn’t just will it instantaneously like Crowley. No snap of the fingers for him, it all came back to bloody impossible Latin phrases he couldn’t hope to remember while drunk. And concentration. And calmness. Damn it.

“Oh, did we not introduce ourselves? Well, that simply won’t do! I’m Jerathmiel.”

“And I am Mehitable,” said the girl. “We are the Order of the Innocents.” 

_Not just witch-hunters, then . . ._

The bad feeling was confirmed when Jerathmiel summoned a sword out of thin air, with a wave of his hand. As easily as Crowley or Aziraphale could have done it . . .

“ _Angels,”_ Lucas hissed. 

Ambrose stared in disbelief. For six thousand years no angel had dared set foot in Greendale, the one and only exception being the wedding. And, of course, Aziraphale.

“You . . . you _can’t_ be here.”

The girl skipped forwards, long hair bouncing on her shoulders. “Oh. Now you’re the ones being rude. I mean: whyever not?”

She ended her question by hurtling the knife through the dark. It spun end over-end in a perfect arc, slamming into Lucas’ right shoulder. Ambrose screamed. Lucas staggered, and would have fallen if Ambrose hadn’t wrapped his arms around him and held him up.

“Stay away!” he yelled, trying to back away with Lucas stumbling in his arms, struggling with the weight of him. Lucas was gasping, clutching at the bloody hilt of the blade embedded in his skin.

The angels stood together at the bottom of the path, smiling. Their eyes were terrifyingly blank.

“The _truce_! What about the truce?!” Ambrose yelled. “Heaven and Hell have a treaty, bound in unholy matrimony . . . you _can’t_ do this!”

A light of fire raced up Jerathmiel’s sword. It was so painfully bright in the darkness of the wood that Ambrose had to blink, unable to stare directly at it.

“Well, if you’re worried about the truce, Brother Spellman, allow me to put your mind at ease,” said the angel in a sing-song tone that made Ambrose’ skin crawl. “I just want to make this perfectly clear: we’re not here to hurt you, young warlocks. We’re here to _save_ you!”

“Well . . .” said Mehitable, with a toss of her head. More knives appeared, spinning and spinning in the air over her hands, “your souls at least.”

The blades glinted and flew before Ambrose had time to think, to react. One sliced his arm, the other struck Lucas. A second knife. A thick gurgling cough caught in his throat. Ambrose couldn’t hold him anymore. They fell down together – Ambrose on his knees, Lucas cradled in his arms. Blood poured from his wounds, drenching Ambrose’ sweater, his jeans. He tried to scream, to cry out, but couldn’t get the breath. No sound would come from his lips.

“Now, now, Sister,” said Jerathmiel, though the smile never left his face. “If you kill them too fast, we won’t get what we’re looking for.”

“Of course, Brother. This one will tell us what we need to know.”

“I’ll tell you _nothing_ ,” said Ambrose, still clutching Lucas’ body. He was gone. He was gone and the angels were advancing. He knew he had to leave him, to run . . . but he couldn’t. He couldn’t unhook his clenched fingers from Lucas’ shirt, couldn’t bear the thought of dropping his head on the ground.

“Why, of course you will,” the angels smiled. “You’ll tell us all about the witches in Greendale. Your little coven. Who they are. Where they hide.”

“Is that what you think?” he nearly laughed. The flaming sword was a blurry haze through his tears. He managed to let go of Lucas. He was beyond saving. Ambrose crossed his arms, concentrating.

Somehow, through the pain and trauma and terror the words to the spell materialized on his tongue.

He said the incantation and disappeared.

* * * * *

“Do . . . uh, do you want to talk about it, angel?” Crowley asked.

They still sat together on the couch. Aziraphale was glad that he’d collected himself a little bit, managed to stop crying, at any rate. He still dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief from his jacket. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said.

“And I’m telling you, you don’t need to be sorry,” said Crowley, he was back to leaning against the couch, trying to appear relaxed. He was actually quite worried about Aziraphale. Obviously, something had happened to make him feel – just worthless. “But, I mean . . .” he sat forwards, reaching over to the wine they’d left on the coffee table and poured them each a generous glass. He passed one to the angel, who took it gratefully. “If you want to talk about it. About anything. Well, I’m here.”

“. . . yes, thank you,” Aziraphale sipped the wine, but put it back down again. “I’m sorry, I just – could you excuse me for one moment?”

“Of course,” Crowley murmured, his worry only intensifying as Aziraphale all but ran to the loo.

Angels didn’t have to use the bathroom – and yes, he’d been wrong about basically everything about angels up to now, but he was really pretty certain of this one – which meant Aziraphale was going in there to just get away from him for a minute. Which, was fair. Of course. It just – ugh.

He ran a hand through his hair, mentally kicking himself. He’d gone to fast, and he knew it. But Aziraphale had seemed to _want_ to be kissed, and held and touched . . . Crowley didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to get him to open up about whatever had happened in the past.

_Someone hurt him_ , he thought. It was the only explanation that made sense. But the idea of someone hurting his angel . . . he put his own drink aside. He’d lost the taste for it. he rubbed hands over his eyes tiredly.

What were they going to do? How could he help? What if everything he did just made things worse?

_You’re a demon,_ a voice in his head told him. _Making things worse is what you do._ He glared into the fire, the clock on the mantle ticked. _It’s late,_ he thought idly. _Everyone else is sure having a good night._

* * * * *

Aziraphale shut himself up in the washroom. Which was foolish, wasn’t it? He was overreacting. Of course he was. He could barely breathe. Instinctively, his hands reached up to loosen his bow-tie, only to remember it wasn’t there. He blushed when he thought of Crowley kissing his neck. It had felt so . . . good. Just the memory sent little waves of pleasure rushing through him.

The more he was with Crowley . . . the more Crowley touched him, the more he _wanted_ to be touched. He was insatiable. Greedy. Wanton. He was supposed to be a good angel. That was the entire purpose of this . . . bond. He was _supposed_ to submit to Crowley. To be obedient. To do what he was told.

And would Crowley really keep treating him so gently? He didn’t deserve it, but he felt like if Crowley changed his mind and got bored with him, it would break him. Or worse, if one day Crowley, if turned out to be like . . .

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with all of these feelings. He turned the tap on, splashing his face with cold water. When he raised his head, his eyes caught a shadow in the mirror and he jumped, nearly slamming his knee into the sink. He spun around, heart hammering in his throat.

He fell backwards, crashing against the wall and managed to slide over a bit so that when his legs gave out he was sitting on the closed toilet seat.

He was cold and shaking. There was no one there. Of course there was no one there.

_There is no one there,_ he told himself firmly. The bathroom was small and apart from him, quite empty.

_You’re fine. You’re fine._

_He can’t come here._

Shuffling footsteps outside and a knock at the door, made him tense. But Crowley’s voice instantly reassured him. “Angel, are you alright? Is . . . is something wrong?”

“Y . . . yes, yes, I’m quite alright,” he stood up, dusted himself off and opened the door. “I am terribly sorry to have worried you, my dear. I just . . . needed a moment.”

“That’s fine, but . . .”

“How about that glass of wine now, hmm?”

“Yeah, okay . . .” Crowley moved back, letting him walk by.

Aziraphale gravitated towards the fireplace. He was cold all the way through. He felt Crowley’s eyes on him, watching as he shivered and warmed his hands. He forced himself to smile. “These November nights! Brrr!”

When what he wanted to say was: _I thought I saw the Archangel Gabriel in the bathroom mirror and it made me absolutely terrified._

 _No, no, he’ll think you’re crazy and besides that, he’d want to know_ why _Gabriel would scare you._ And how could he talk about that? How could he . . . it made him feel dirty and ashamed. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to think about it. Wished he could just forget and go back to kissing Crowley on the sofa. That – that – had been bliss . . .

He was about to turn back to Crowley, when the front door crashed open. They heard the heavy rattling bang of the door and a thud like someone falling. Crowley paled, turning towards the sound just as a horrible cry tore through the front hallway, echoing through the house. Aziraphale's chill returned. He dropped the wine and Crowley was through the living room in a second, racing to the entryway.

Aziraphale followed close behind, heart hammering. He heard Crowley before he got there -

“Ambrose?” Crowley was saying again and again, “Ambrose? _Ambrose!”_

Aziraphale rounded the corner and gasped. Ambrose was collapsed, covered in blood, sobbing in Crowley’s arms. Crowley was holding him, rocking him back and forth, expression stricken. “Ambrose . . . Ambrose, what happened? Who did this to you?”

“They . . . they killed him – they _killed_ him, Uncle –”

“Who – what –”

Ambrose suddenly pushed Crowley away.

He pointed a shaking finger at Aziraphale. “ _Angels!_ Angels in the Greendale Woods! They killed Lucas – they slaughtered him in front of me. They would have killed me too, Uncle – we’re under attack!”


	12. In the Time of the Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: this chapter delves a bit more into Aziraphale’s past and some of what he endured in Heaven. I just want to remind everyone of the **trigger warnings** for this fic – triggers for: rape and abuse. Especially this chapter. Please take care of yourself and don’t read this if it may be triggering for you.

LONDON

1941

They burned Aziraphale’s bookshop. The archangels.

In the midst of the Blitz, _A. Z. Fell & Co._ would be just another of London’s lost building – another grim pile of debris, a haunting shell that people stepped more quickly past. Or perhaps some might linger, looking over the ruins and think _‘I remember when that was a bookshop – the owner was a bit odd, but he did have some treasures.’_ All that remained of those treasures now were a few burnt edges of paper fluttering in the piles of ash and pulverized stone.

They made him watch, was the thing. He managed not to cry, but he was too numb to feel proud – too numb to feel much of anything. He had thought he knew humans, but he’d just been betrayed by one – and shot point-blank by Nazis in a church. Losing some of his most precious books of prophecy in the process – well, he’d lost all of them now.

The collections he had spent (several) lifetimes growing – cultivating as carefully and tenderly as a garden. Literature and poetry and history and, of course, his books of prophecy. Books by authors he had known and befriended. Books that lived on after those mortal friends had long gone.

He’d lost everything.

This was his punishment for allowing himself to be discorporated again. For failing in his mission again.

The air was hot and acrid with the lingering smell of the fire. Rubble shifted and crunched further in the destruction and he jumped when a hand came down heavily on his shoulder. “There. Now that takes care of your human distractions.”

He gulped. “I – I – I’ll do better."

“No,” Gabriel’s voice was firm. “You’ve had more than a fair shot down here, Aziraphale. It’s been what – six thousand years, give or take? More than enough time to prove yourself – and all you’ve managed to do is make a mess of things. Repeatedly. You’re being recalled.”

_Recalled._

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He felt a stone drop in the pit of his stomach and he was suddenly shaking. Recalled to Heaven. Suddenly, all he could think was that he didn’t want to go.

“B-but I –”

“What’s that look for?” Gabriel demanded. “You’re coming home, Aziraphale! This was clearly too challenging for you – we should have known it would be, given your _epic_ fuck up in the Garden. But, well, She does enjoy giving second chances . . . sometimes.”

Sandalphon came to stand on the other side of him, casually wiping dust from the destroyed bookshop off his hands with a rag, which he tossed blithely to the ground. He had disgusted look on his face. “You should be grateful you’re not Falling – bloody incompetence, that’s what this is. And leaving us to clean up the mess – as usual.”

“T-the Nazis . . .” Guilt twisted through his stomach. He hated to think that he had done anything to help those horrible people, even by accident. And giving them the books (although he didn’t think they would be _much_ help) made him feel absolutely sick.

“They won’t win,” Michael informed him. She stood behind him. As though there to catch him should he try to run. As though he would ever be brave or foolish enough to run from archangels.

“Yeah, no thanks to you, though, huh?” Sandalphon sneered, muttering something about how Aziraphale was a sorry excuse for an angel. Aziraphale tried not to hear the words, but London, in the dead of the night, in the aftermath of another bombing, was silent as a tomb. The only living things on the whole length of the street were him and the archangels who surrounded him, like prison guards.

_What a horrible, ungrateful thought,_ Aziraphale immediately berated himself. As though the Silver City was a prison and not the pinnacle of all glory! As though the archangels were anything other than the most virtuous and beautiful beings in all of Creation. He wasn’t even worthy to stand in their shadows.

The dust swirled and settled in the still air and he furiously blinked the tears from his eyes, hoping they wouldn’t see.

* * *

10 YEARS LATER

THE SILVER CITY

Aziraphale missed Earth. Missed it all the way through to the very core of his celestial being. He knew it was a selfish thought, if not an outright traitorous one, and nervously straightened his cream coloured waistcoat, trying to take his mind . . . away. Away from the faint music of the spheres. Away from the glittering sword-sharp outlines of the Silver City, glimpsed beyond crystalline windows.

It was 1951 on Earth. And every corridor and chamber of the Silver City now resembled a corporate office building.

He had been recalled from Earth a decade earlier, and there had been no sign he might ever be allowed to go back. Of course, it was only fair, he reminded himself – he had messed up many, many times. Heaven was right to replace him with someone who knew what they were doing. He was always messing up. Had been since the Garden.

Heaven was cold. It was perfect and beautiful and as cold as a castle made of ice.

Aziraphale missed the clutter of his bookshop, the knickknacks and curios he’d crammed into every corner, his warm blankets and mismatched, comfortable furniture. He missed the warmth of tea, and all the different tastes and textures of human food . . . He missed stories.

How many new books had been written, down there? 

_What a selfish thing to think about. You haven’t learnt anything at all._

Aziraphale was scared of his own thoughts. Scared they made him bad, even worse than Gabriel and the others knew. He was afraid of what would happen to him if anyone found out – afraid he would be exiled and Fall, plummeting, burning in agony and hated by everyone including God.

To distract himself, he pulled the pocket-watch out of his waistcoat and played with it for a moment. The hands refused to move in this place – it was a pointless thing to hold onto. A relic. A _souvenir._ He was pathetically grateful for it, and the mortal clothes, which he hung onto. He knew he should have changed them for Heavenly robes. He knew. He knew. But.

The angels were immortal, ethereal beings with no bodily need for food or rest, but because they were also individuals with thought and emotion, they could not just work at their assigned duties forever without end. Heaven had shared places and private places. But in the communal spaces, other angels avoided him. News of his failures on Earth had spread and no one wanted contact with him.

Aziraphale was used to keeping to himself. After all, he’d been alone on Earth for thousands of years. But he had his customers at the bookstore and neighbours in Soho. There were people he met briefly on walks in Saint James Park, or the nearby National Gallery. And of course, he often became quite friendly with the owners of all the little restaurants he visited. And he hadn’t realized how much he _needed_ those small bits of contact, until they were taken away from him. In all of his centuries alone on Earth, he hadn’t realized what it was to be truly alone.

So, Aziraphale was lonely and grieving, and trying not to have a breakdown at the thought of an infinite spiral into eternity with nothing but the chilling perfection of Heaven, which made him feel very unworthy and small, when Gabriel first came to see him.

“Ah, Aziraphale, literally our worst angel.”

The words sent his heart plummeting down to the bottom of his shoes and he felt shame wash across his face. What was he supposed to say to _that_? But Gabriel stared at him, eyes boring into him, clearly expecting some sort of response. The archangel’s eyes were hard and his mouth pressed into the sort-of grin that made the skin on the back of Aziraphale’s neck prickle.

He took a step backwards, hoping it came across as nothing short of respectful. “Lord Gabriel. How . . . how are you?”

“Not good, Aziraphale. Not good . . .” Gabriel looked him up and down, the grin transforming into a grimace, then a frown. “You royally screwed up back on Earth, you know that? Michael . . . Michael’s a bit of a soft-touch. She went easy on you, when we recalled you. How many bodies did you go through on Earth? Five? Ten? I would have thrown you in the stocks myself. Not that Heaven has stocks. Of course.” He laughed too loudly and Aziraphale flinched.

“And even now, you’re being allowed to keep that body. As what, a souvenir? It’s not even much of a body, is it?” he reached out and jabbed Aziraphale in the side too quickly for him to get out of the way.

It hurt, but before he could fully process _that_ attack, Gabriel grabbed his arm tight enough to bruise. “I mean, you really let yourself go, didn’t you? Kind of ruined it with all the human food, am I right? Gone soft.”

 _But this is the body God gave me, when She set me to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden,_ he wanted to say.

But that would only remind Gabriel of the first of Aziraphale’s many failures, so he said nothing.

Gabriel jabbed a finger into his side again and this time pinched him. Aziraphale tried to pull out of his grasp, but he would have had an easier time wrenching his arm out of a statue.

“You know Michael is a warrior, right? Threw Lucifer straight out of Heaven. How do you think she feels to see you, basically making a mockery of being an angel with that pudgy, weakling body? You understand how insulting it is to all of us, right? Or are you really as stupid as you act?”

“I – I didn’t – I don’t – I –” Aziraphale, trying desperately to get away.

To say that Aziraphale had no idea what was happening would be incorrect. He had lived six thousand years (nearly) on Earth; he knew what harassment was. But Gabriel was an angel. It would have been _different_ if they were human beings. Because then, it would obviously have been wrong, but Gabriel was an angel. And not just any angel, but an archangel. And not just any archangel, but one of the seven holiest archangels who were said to stand in the presence of the Creator. Aziraphale had only had that one conversation with God, where he lied to Her about his sword. There was no way he was as worthy as Gabriel.

Gabriel leaned far too close. He smoothed out the lapels of Aziraphale’s cream-coloured jacket. “And this suit is disgustingly out of style, you know. Just something to think about.”

And he was gone.

He was gone. Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat, his hands shaking. He didn’t know how to process what had just happened.

 _Nothing happened._ That was what he told himself, later, when he was turning the incident over again and again in his mind.

_He just . . . spoke to you. That’s all. Don’t be so sensitive about it. You’re an angel, for goodness’ sake! He probably didn’t even realize it came off as threatening. He’s not had so much experience on Earth. And . . . and things are different here._

Aziraphale told himself this – again and again and again.

Until the next time it happened.

* * *

Aziraphale came to dread the sight of Gabriel. He’d always been intimidated by the archangels. But he found himself scanning areas of the Silver City to make sure Gabriel wasn’t there before he entered and doing his best to avoid any of the spaces he thought the archangel was likely to frequent. But avoiding someone in a place where people moved about by thought and had a tendency to pop out of thin air was easier said than done.

He would criticize Aziraphale’s work on Earth, his current work in the Halls of Records, his appearance, his routines. He’d make comments about how none of the other angels liked him and then deride Aziraphale for not making the effort to integrate back into Heaven’s society. He didn’t always touch Aziraphale – sometimes it was just the words – other times, he’d push him, pinch him, and once deliberately tripped him and then chided him for being so clumsy.

“You miss it, don’t you?” Gabriel asked one day. He was looking at Aziraphale with the usual air of disgust, but also something like genuine curiosity. “You miss that revolting cesspit of cockroaches and . . . humanity.”

 _The Creator made them,_ he wanted to say, _She made them in Her image and we were made to love and cherish them._ But the words cowered in his throat like frightened animals and remained unsaid.

The archangel looked down his nose at him. “What is actually wrong with you? You’re here in Paradise and you’re sad that you’re not cavorting around on that gross planet anymore, with some disease ridden apes?”

Tears stung in Aziraphale’s eyes. He’d gotten (slightly) better at hiding his emotions from Gabriel, or so he hoped, but this . . . It was _true_. He _didn’t_ belong in Heaven. He _did_ miss Earth. Something _was_ wrong with him. All of the other angels knew it, too. This was why they shunned and avoided him.

His breath hitched. Gabriel’s smile widened. “Well, you know what? You messed things up so badly on that dirt ball you love so much, that _I_ have to go down there and fix it for you. Though, you know . . . maybe. Nah, you wouldn’t be interested in actually doing some work and fixing your mistakes, would you, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s mind spun. “Wh – what?”

“Well, I was thinking you could come down with me. Strictly off the record, of course. Michael said you’re not allowed back on Earth, after all. But it could be . . . our little secret. And you could help me. Help make amends.”

 _Return to Earth?_ Aziraphale stared up at Gabriel, trembling with dread and a horrible twinge of longing and hope. _Return to Earth . . . even for a little while . . . help Gabriel . . . make it right._

Something in the back of his mind told him this was not a good idea and Gabriel’s smile, the intensity of his stare, made Aziraphale inwardly cringe. But he couldn’t help it. He found himself nodding. “Y-yes . . . _anything_ , but -”

“Great! I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

Gabriel vanished and Aziraphale wondered what he had just agreed to.

* * *

They did not materialize on Earth anywhere Aziraphale had been expecting. He wasn’t necessarily expecting to be back in London, but he thought that if they were there to do good deeds they would be . . . Well, anywhere, really, besides a five-star resort for wealthy corporate CEOs. The signs and pamphlets in the impressive front lobby declared it to be a wellness and relaxation retreat, where both of those things came with a hefty price tag.

“But . . . who are we meant to help here?”

Gabriel shot him an annoyed look. “Help? We’re meant to help _me,_ Aziraphale. I have been working around the clock to fix Earth.”

Aziraphale stared at him. He felt the ground drop away beneath him, standing in the brightly-lit lobby. Humans moved around them, but didn’t appear to notice them yet. A chill ran down his back. Something about this felt very, very dangerous, though he was also genuinely confused.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Gabriel, not sounding sorry at all, “did you think I meant I needed your help for _that_ part? That I would put humanity back into the hands of the angel that fucked it up the first time around? Now that wouldn’t be very responsible of me, would it?”

Gabriel stepped into the world and became part of it. He was wearing his favoured bespoke white and grey suit and looked every inch the wealthy, American CEO who belonged at such a place. Aziraphale, in his waistcoat and bowtie, did not. Gabriel seemed to realize this and grimaced at him. “Didn’t I tell you to change that ugly suit?”

“It’s . . .” Aziraphale gave up, at a loss for words. He didn’t know what was happening and his clothes were the last thing from his mind.

“Look, it doesn’t even matter,” said Gabriel. “You’re going to stay in the room. Don’t talk to anybody.”

“But . . . then why am I here?”

Gabriel looked at him like he was incredibly stupid and, this time, Aziraphale felt stupid. His face flushed red. He felt about an inch high as Gabriel continued to glare. The humans were now having to walk around them to get in line to check in. Some cast them (especially Aziraphale) curious or downright rude glances.

“. . . Maybe you’re just here to learn how to _shut up and follow orders_ for once.”

Aziraphale swallowed. This wasn’t good. Everything inside him told him this wasn’t good. But he didn’t know what he could do, at this point. He’d already agreed to help Gabriel with . . . whatever.

He dutifully went to their room while Gabriel amused himself with the rest of the resort. There was a sideboard/record player and drinks cabinet, white lamps and white chairs. A white bed. It wasn’t what Aziraphale would have chosen, but it was nice to be back on Earth. There were large windows, the sun was shining outside and he could see the ocean. Waves crashed in the distance, gulls cried and the air smelt fresh. _How lovely,_ he thought. Even though just behind that thought he was internally screaming in panic.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite so dense that he didn’t have a sense of where this was going. There were only so many things two people . . . or two people-shaped beings . . . could get up to in hotel rooms. And it made sense that Gabriel wouldn’t want to do those things in _Heaven_.

Aziraphale found himself dry-heaving in panic. He crumpled into the nearest chair, in front of the window, and tried to force his body to relax. He dug his fingers into his knees. He tried to enjoy the feeling of the sun on his face.

What had he done to . . . encourage this? Gabriel didn’t even _like_ his body. Gabriel didn’t even like _him_. In fact, he maybe hated him? Aziraphale, being an angel, had a hard time wrapping his mind around that emotion.

Angels weren’t supposed to hurt other angels. Not physically, anyway. Angels could be chastised, or demoted, or . . . or _cast out._ But that wasn’t what this was, Aziraphale realized. This was a personal, petty cruelty.

He stood up. Not sure if he was planning to run back to Heaven, or – or _something_ – but the door opened just as he was turning. Gabriel smirked at him, shutting and locking the door behind him. “Going somewhere?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He clenched his hands at his sides. “You . . . I . . . I need to go. Back to Heaven.”

“Oh?” Gabriel asked, raising an eyebrow. “And tell Michael how you directly disobeyed her orders and returned to Earth?”

Aziraphale felt the colour drain from his face. “But . . . but you . . .”

“I did nothing,” Gabriel said, staring him in the eye. “I’m a fucking archangel. You’re a stupid little principality that fucked up every job we ever gave you. What do you think, you’re going to run to Michael and she’s going to believe a word that comes out of your fat stupid face?”

Gabriel stared at him. Aziraphale dropped his gaze. Sweat poured down his neck.

“Take your clothes off,” the archangel muttered, as though disgusted by Aziraphale, by himself, by everything.

“Y-you don’t have to do this,” said Aziraphale.

“I’m not telling you again,” Gabriel snarled, the façade of the smiling businessman was gone and what Aziraphale saw made him shake even harder. His hands trembled when he raised them to his jacket. Evidently he took too long, because Gabriel crossed the room in a few neat strides and backhanded him across the face.

There was a crack and the room spun. Aziraphale fell, clutching the side of his face and staring up at Gabriel through streaming eyes. “Please, Gabriel –” he murmured.

“Shut up. Shut up. _Just shut up_ ,” said Gabriel, hauling him to his feet before hitting him once more. This time a punch to the mouth. Aziraphale tasted blood. His lip stung. He was afraid. He was truly afraid. It was like that time in France, during the Revolution . . .

No, it was worse than that.

“You are _so_ annoying. So weak. So stupid. Just shut up for once and do as you’re told.” His hands were on Aziraphale’s jacket, tearing it off and ripping the buttons on his waistcoat and shoving him down.

Aziraphale’s head clunked against the floor. If he’d been human it might have knocked him out. As it was, it made white sparks shoot in front of his eyes. He thought he might be saying something – begging, really – as Gabriel unhooked his belt.

Gabriel sat back on his heels suddenly, laughing. Aziraphale blinked past the stars of pain and the tears and tried to sit up enough to look at him. Gabriel shoved him back down again. “What are you getting so worked up about?” he asked. “Why is this even a _thing_? This doesn’t _matter._ We gave you that body, didn’t we? So we can do what we like with it.”

He tore open Aziraphale’s shirt, exposing his soft, pale chest and belly. Gabriel pinched him and slapped him, pinning him down even as Aziraphale tried to get away. “Please, stop–” he cried. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Even with everything happening, he felt ashamed by the tears.

Gabriel smirked, gripping one of his wrists in a hold so brutal it would have snapped a human’s bones. “Oh, you’re going to cry much more than that, Aziraphale.”

He choked on a sob and Gabriel shuffled back, just enough to pull his pants down. “Seriously, Aziraphale,” came Gabriel’s deceptively even tone, “no one even cares.”

He pushed inside him then and the pain was incredible, like he was being torn in half.

* * *

He hoped that after the first time, it might be over. It wasn’t. He could miracle away the pain. The bruising and the rest of it. But he couldn’t erase how it made him feel – hollow and dirty and sick and ashamed. He could miracle away the physical damage to his corporeal form, but that didn’t make it better.

Sometimes Gabriel would send his right-hand angel, Sandalphon, to summon him. The first time this happened, Aziraphale ignored him. He was doing his best to avoid Gabriel, willing himself all across the Heavenly Spheres in an effort to evade him. It worked for a time – Gabriel _did_ have his own duties to attend – but Aziraphale’s luck couldn’t last forever.

Gabriel physically dragged Aziraphale through the portal back to Earth, while loyal Sandalphon distracted the lower-ranking angel on guard duty.

This time they were in a house. He could tell at a glance it was Gabriel’s – everything was too clean and unused to have belonged to a human being. Everything was in progressively chillier shades of grey and arctic white. 

“Did you really think you could refuse to answer me?” the archangel pushed him into a sparsely decorated living room.

His knees hit the back of a sleek grey ottoman that had never once felt the weight of a foot. Aziraphale managed to keep his balance. “Well, it isn’t as though this is official Heavenly business.”

For a split-second Gabriel looked taken aback. “You . . . you talk back now? You’re just a – a _principality_! I am an archangel!”

Aziraphale’s heart was hammering in his chest. He forced the words out, grateful that his voice didn’t shake as he said: “this isn’t how an archangel should act.”

Gabriel’s face flushed red for a moment, before it went disturbingly pale. “Let’s get this straight, Aziraphale. You will come when I summon you, immediately and without complaint. You will do what I say. You will not talk back, or disrespect me in any way.”

Aziraphale’s earlier courage faded. The archangels were God’s warriors. There was no real chance that he could stand up to one physically, if his words weren’t enough to get through . . .

“Now, you’ve been extremely disrespectful. I think you need to be punished.”

The air shimmered and Sandalphon appeared in the room. Aziraphale swallowed, eyes darting between the two of them. “I . . .” he couldn’t think of what else to do or say. “I’m sorry,” he tried, helplessly.

“Good. You’re about to get a lot sorrier.” Gabriel slowly undid his belt. It was heavy, handmade Italian leather. He folded it into a strap. “Take your clothes off and bend over the – the desk there – ” Gabriel’s eyes were dark, his breath began to quicken in anticipation.

There was now a metal desk in the far corner. Aziraphale was almost certain it hadn’t been there until that very moment. He tried to back away. “N-now, surely, Gabriel, you must be joke-”

Gabriel’s arm shot out and the belt, like a whip, caught him across the face. There was a blinding flash of pain. Thankfully, it missed his eyes, but the skin was torn raw from his cheek. Aziraphale gasped in pain.

Sandalphon grabbed him by the shoulder, steering him roughly towards the desk. “Now, now, mustn’t keep Lord Gabriel waiting.”

Sandalphon’s grip turned out to be impossible to wrestle out of, the angel was much stronger than he appeared. Aziraphale could barely see through his watering eyes, as they divested him of his jacket, waistcoat and trousers. “Gabriel . . .” he tried one last time.

The belt cut through the air, catching him in the back of the thighs. He staggered forwards, colliding with the desk. Sandalphon bent him the rest of the way over it, while at the same time tugging down his underpants. He knew it was coming, but it still filled him with shame and a fresh thrill of terror. The air felt very cold on his exposed skin. He guessed begging wouldn’t do any good.

Sandalphon giggled and Aziraphale’s skin crawled with revulsion. He made another effort to twist out of the angel’s grasp, but Sandalphon quickly pinned him by the shoulders, crushing his chest into the top of the desk. And he remembered that this was an angel who had destroyed entire cities of men.

He heard the heavy tread of Gabriel’s feet and then the sound of the belt moving through the air. The leather strap cracked against his flesh and Aziraphale couldn’t stifle his cry. He squeezed his eyes shut as the second blow landed. And a third. He whimpered, tears leaking from his eyes.

His body quivered, but he couldn’t get away. Sandalphon’s hands were like two rocks digging into his back. Gabriel stood behind him, breathing heavily and muttering under his breath about disobedient principalities. 

Another stroke of the belt, like red light bursting behind his eyes. Like a bite of fire across his skin. “P-please, Gabriel!”

“Who is your superior in Heaven, Aziraphale?” Gabriel shouted, delivering another blow, and another.

“Y-you are-” Aziraphale gasped between sobs.

“And next time I send Sandalphon to collect you – what will your answer be?”

His body shook, wracked with pain. The blows continued, scattered over his buttocks, hips and thighs. He promised anything – everything – and still the assault continued. Gabriel hit him until, celestial being or not, he thought he might pass out from the pain.

Finally, Gabriel tossed the belt away. Aziraphale flinched at the sound of it clattering to the floor a few feet away.

Gabriel took a deep breath, then laughed. “Wow, I sure needed that. Quite a workout, actually. I feel great.”

 _You callous fuck,_ Aziraphale thought.

* * *

And then he was summoned by Michael.

Her offices were high in the peaks of the Silver City’s great spire. Michael, Heaven’s Champion, who had thrown Lucifer into the Abyss. Though she only wore her molten gold armour on special occasions these days, preferring to adopt the same 21st Century Earth look as Gabriel in smartly tailored suits. Her long curly hair was fastened back in a severe knot and she peered at him with a stoic face.

Her rooms were palatial-sized, made of living crystal that unfolded like glass flowers the size of sports cars. Light reflected off every surface in a blinding array. He supposed it was very beautiful, but he no longer trusted the beauty he saw in Heaven. He tried to disguise his nervousness when he approached her and failed, wringing his hands and forgetting to breathe and then breathing too much . . .

Why did she want to see him?

“Aziraphale,” she greeted him. “Please have a seat.”

One of the crystal-flower structures shivered and coalesced into something that looked like modern office furniture.

“Aziraphale, your progress in the Hall of Records is sloppy, unprofessional.”

“I – I’m sorry.”

She said nothing, only stared at him, until he looked down, hands twisting in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry – I – I’m doing my best – It’s been a long time, I – I’m really trying –”

“I see,” she cut him off coldly. She shuffled some papers on her desk. He wasn’t sure what Heaven needed papers for, and thought maybe they were just for effect.

A chill was working its way up the back of his neck.

“It has been decided to move you to another task – perhaps one more suited to your . . . abilities,” she said the last word with the definite implication that Aziraphale had no abilities. He swallowed, wondering how bad this was going to be – using all of his strength to sit up proper and still and not outwardly tremble or flinch when she held him in her gaze.

“You will be assigned, henceforth, to be Lord Gabriel’s secretary –”

The chill turned into the blade of a knife dragging up the back of his throat. Ice spread through his entire body.

“You will make yourself available to the archangel at all times, help him keep track of his myriad obligations and celestial duties, perform whatever small tasks he deems you worthy of,” she paused for a moment, and only for a moment, looked unsure.

But then she seemed to reach some interior conclusion, and forged ahead: “It has also come to our attention that some angels, upon acquiring a physical, corporeal body, which as you know Gabriel must have to fulfill certain of his Earthly duties . . . they have certain needs. Urges, one might say. These manifest more strongly in some angels than in others. The important thing, for you, is to assure that these needs are met so that Lord Gabriel can continue to operate without distraction.”

Aziraphale felt like the ground was slipping away from underneath him. He thought he really might be falling, with the sudden wave of dizziness which rolled over him, drowning out Michael’s words. _She knows_ , he thought. _She knows what he’s like, what he’s capable of, and she doesn’t care . . ._

“I don’t need to tell you how important Lord Gabriel is, or what an honour it will be for you to serve him.”

She waited. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could speak. But to disobey Michael was surely to disobey God. Somehow, he managed to get the words out: “Of course. An honour.”

There was literally nothing else he could say. Thoughts of falling, consumed in flame, flashed through his head.

“A _great_ honour,” she stressed. Her face was a perfect mask. “Aziraphale . . . this is your last chance. You want to be an angel, don’t you? To serve God and Heaven? To walk the Path of Light? To be Good?”

“Yes,” he whispered, hands twisting in his lap, “more than anything.”

And he supposed that being Good must hurt. Must be difficult. And Gabriel’s work must be incredibly important. And it was selfish of Aziraphale to think of himself when he should be thinking of Being Good and doing whatever was necessary to help Gabriel continue to do his Good Work.

So why did it feel like dying? Why did he quake inside at the idea of doing this for all of Eternity? Why did it make him want to weep?

_Because you’re stupid,_ he told himself. _Because you’re a stupid angel who doesn’t understand anything._

“I’ll be good,” he said, “I promise, Michael. I’ll do everything Gabriel says. I’ll – I’ll help him in any way I can.”

“Well, of course you will.”

* * *

THE PRESENT

THE SPELLMAN RESIDENCE

The front door crashed open and Aziraphale’s blood went cold as a horrible cry tore through the front hallway. Crowley was across the living room in seconds. Aziraphale trailed after him, already trembling and sweating.

“Ambrose?” he heard Crowley call the young man’s name, again and again with rising panic. “Ambrose? _Ambrose!”_

Aziraphale, catching up to them, gasped and stumbled backwards, crashing into the wall. Ambrose was collapsed, covered in blood and sobbing in Crowley’s arms. Crowley held him, rocking him back and forth, expression stricken. “Ambrose . . . Ambrose, what happened? Who did this to you?”

“They . . . they killed him – they killed him, Uncle –”

Ambrose suddenly pushed Crowley away. He pointed a shaking finger at Aziraphale. “ _Angels!_ Angels in the Greendale Woods. They killed Lucas – they slaughtered him in front of me. They would have killed me too – we’re under attack!”

Everything after that was a blur. Aziraphale stayed back, watching as Crowley called Hilda, shouting into the phone that they needed her help. Zelda and Sabrina arrived shortly after, and Ambrose was bundled into one of the great chairs by the fire. Hilda cleaned and dressed the wound on his shoulder. Crowley took his bloody sweatshirt – though it wasn’t his blood. _Not his blood, but_ _his lover’s._

Aziraphale felt sick. He stood back, out of everyone’s way, shaking with dread. He could have healed the gash on Ambrose’s arm, and would have liked to, but they didn’t want him there. And who could blame them? _Angels. Angels did this._

But _how?_ And why? There was supposed to be peace. That was the whole point. That . . . Aziraphale shuddered, sliding against the wall. He was in the corner, watching everything happen a few feet away, but it felt like an insurmountable distance.

_Gabriel was so insistent that I be obedient, that I not anger the demon, so that we could show that Heaven wanted this peace . . . so wh_ y? He thought of poor Lucas, left in the woods. Ambrose was crying in Hilda’s arms. Crowley hovered over them, face white and stricken. Aziraphale thought, you couldn’t hurt him worse than by hurting a member of his family.

Zelda brought a steaming mug of some special tea while Hilda tended to the cuts and bruises. Whatever it was, Crowley added a generous shot of whiskey to it before passing it carefully into Ambrose’s shaking hands.

“Oh Ambrose, my poor Ambrose . . .” Hilda said, wiping tears from her eyes. Aziraphale felt the love she had for him – as strong and deep as a mother’s love. He saw again, Ambrose pointing at him. _Angels._ He wanted to curl up and disappear into the corner of the old house, melt into the bones of the creaking wood and rusted pipes. 

Sabrina came and stood next to him, holding Salem cradled in her arms. She looked stunned and he was surprised she would choose to come and put herself next to him – the only angel on the premises. “This is horrible,” she murmured, kissing the top of Salem’s furry head. “Poor Lucas . . . poor Ambrose . . .”

He nodded, swallowing miserably. Unable to speak.

“Who would do this?”

And Aziraphale realized – with dread rather than relief - that she had not been home when Ambrose first appeared. She had not witnessed her cousin collapsing, bloody and traumatized, in the foyer. She hadn’t heard him cry out that it had been angels and sob in Crowley’s arms. The others – who had rallied around him in comfort and protection - had not yet pressed him to recount the grisly details, though he supposed that would come. Aziraphale should tell her. He should. It was the right thing to do. But his throat closed up so tightly he could barely breathe. He couldn’t say a word.

Salem meowed plaintively, twitching his tail, and Sabrina let him down. Zelda finally glanced in their direction, and her expression hardened. “Sabrina . . . get away from him,” she said.

Aziraphale felt a rush of blood in his head. His heart thundered in his chest. _Angels did this._ He didn’t want the Spellmans to hate him.

Crowley looked up from where he was kneeling beside Ambrose. “Zelda.”

Sabrina glanced sideways at Aziraphale, but gave no indication of moving. In fact, she shuffled a little bit closer to him. “Auntie Z,” said Sabrina softly, “you can’t possibly think Aziraphale had something to do with this?”

Crowley frowned, rising to his feet. “Of course not.”

Aziraphale shuddered. He hadn’t realized, fully, how scared he had been of Crowley’s response and the relief that flooded through him left him trembling.

“It was _angels_!” Ambrose shouted, his voice raw and tortured. “ _Angels_ in the Greendale woods. _His_ people! They don’t care about whatever truce or treaty you thought you were agreeing to, Uncle. They were sadists. They murdered Lucas in cold blood and they were happy about to do it.”

Aziraphale felt the pain radiating from Ambrose in long psychic knives. He wished desperately that there was something he could do to soothe that agony, but angelic interference was the last thing the young warlock wanted. So he lowered his eyes and stayed against the wall.

He wished he knew which angels it had been, and why. It had been centuries since his side had gotten directly involved in smiting. And when they went after witches and warlocks, it was more common practice to influence humans to do the actual witch hunting. Everything about this felt off. Not that he didn’t believe Ambrose, as an angel, Aziraphale could feel the burning truth in his words. It was just odd and strange and tragic. He could hardly begin to wrap his mind around it.

Hilda murmured comforting words, trying to tuck a blanket around him, but Ambrose pushed her off, agitated. He spoke of the angels – how they had looked, like a pair of young, blonde missionaries. The girl had carried knives and the boy a flaming sword. He told them of Lucas’ last shuddering breaths, how Ambrose tried to hold him. Aziraphale bit his cheek, tears stinging his eyes. He desperately blinked them back.

“See?” said Zelda, straightening. Her face was strained, like she was struggling to maintain her usual cool façade.

Crowley’s arms were crossed, his head tilted thoughtfully. At some point the dark glasses had reappeared over his eyes. He leaned against the side of the sofa. “Ambrose,” he said softly. “Ambrose, I promise you, we will find these creatures. We will avenge Lucas. But you must know that Aziraphale was not there in the woods. He was here with me when you were attacked.” 

“He . . . he could have told them where we were. He could be feeding them information!”

“And did Aziraphale know where you were going on your date with Lucas? Did he know what time you planned to leave, or that you were going to cut through that trail in the woods on your walk home? Did even _you_ know, when you set off that night, that you were going to be in the that place at that time?”

“Crowley!” said Hilda, “how can you berate Ambrose? After what the boy’s been through –”

Crowley looked flummoxed, raising his hands. “I’m not! I wasn’t -”

“But how were they able to set foot in Greendale in the first place, Uncle?” Ambrose demanded. “Are we not protected by the Dark Lord here? No angel has been able to set foot on this land in six millennia . . . until _him_ ,” and he pointed at Aziraphale, who cringed. 

Everyone started shouting at everyone else, all except for Aziraphale and Sabrina, who stayed there, frozen. Aziraphale felt worse and worse, and the chill that had started earlier, in the washroom, was back and biting through his bones. He felt like he would never be warm again.

Finally, Crowley seemed to realize or remember they were there. “Sabrina, take Aziraphale upstairs now,” he said roughly.

Aziraphale flinched at the tone. He almost expected Sabrina to argue, but she only tugged on his sleeve, urging him to follow. They crept around the outer wall of the living room and he felt everyone’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He would never have hurt Ambrose or Lucas, or any of them. But he couldn’t look at them. He couldn’t speak. It was all he could do to follow Sabrina up the stairs. Salem came bounding after them, racing up the staircase at their feet.

* * *

Crowley relaxed marginally when Sabrina and Aziraphale were gone. He hated the idea of them listening to this. His protective instincts were making his scales itch. He wanted to wrap them both up and take them far, far away from this situation. Not that that was an option. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and fell back onto the sofa, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “Tell me everything. Again. All of the details.”

Zelda interrupted before Ambrose could begin: “You can’t just leave Sabrina alone with him like that – not now that -”

“Aziraphale’s not involved with this.”

“Oh, Crowley, I know how you feel about him . . . we all like him,” said Hilda, rocking back and forth with nervous energy. Her eyes darted around the room, unable to rest on any one person or thing. “But – but – Ambrose says there were angels . . .”

“I’m sure there were. But not Aziraphale.”

“But what if he is involved?” she cried. “How would we know?”

“And what does it mean if the angels have broken the treaty?” asked Zelda. “How can we trust any of them?”

“I don’t know . . .” he groaned. “I’ll take it to the Dark Council. They’ll want to involve the Unholy Trivium. That’s all I can think of. They may have answers as to how the angels even materialized on this land. Ambrose, you are right, Greendale is under the Dark Lord’s power . . . and it isn’t within an angel’s abilities to disable those protections. If it were that easy, they would have wiped this spot off the map six thousand years ago.”

“Something to do with the marriage, then?” Zelda asked.

“I think not, or our side would never have agreed to it. Remember, the union came with the Dark Lord’s blessing. So to speak. The Council was involved in that as well, I might add. It was decided to be mutually beneficial. Or mutually harmless, in any case.”

“What then?”

“How should I know?” he snapped, regretting it when he saw the frightened, hurt looks on his sisters’ faces. This wasn’t their fault.

_Bloody Heaven,_ should have known Upstairs wouldn’t feel beholden to any agreement with their lot. And yet, he wondered. The attack was strangely brazen, and why go after a couple of warlocks, randomly, in the woods? Were they advance troops of a larger force, or a pair of lone wolves? The only way they could know for sure, Crowley thought, was if they could catch the angel witch hunters and wring the answers from them.

“Look, none of us have the answers here. And none of us are safe. But we need more information. Let’s not devolve into a . . . a witch hunt.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Hilda rolled her eyes. She still looked worried, but she slapped his arm lightly and he thought – hoped – maybe they would be alright.

“I will summon the Dark Council,” he promised. “In the meantime, let’s strengthen the anti-angel wardings around the house and the school.”

“And Aziraphale?” Zelda asked.

“With exceptions for Aziraphale.”

She frowned, but agreed. “Be it on your head, then.”

He ignored her. “Faustus can take care of the church. Zelda, you will contact the rest of the coven and alert them.” She nodded. “No one should go out by themselves. I want the orphans in lock-down at the Academy. The other students can either remain in the dorms or go home for the duration, provided their parents’ homes are sufficiently protected.” 

“Very well,” Zelda sniffed, turning away.

“I’m not staying under the same roof as that – creature,” said Ambrose.

“You have no choice,” said Crowley. He did his best not to snap. He knew that Ambrose had been through something truly horrific. “Hilda, stay with Ambrose, please,” he said, while he left the room.

_Angels . . ._

Crowley may have been a ‘prince’ in Hell, according to the Boss’s whims, but he doubted he had the strength to go toe-to-toe against angels. He had spent some time strengthening the invisible wards and glyphs surrounding the Spellman family home after the incident with Hastur, Ligur and Batibat. They should be more resilient, less prone to falter if something happened to him.

Now, with a wave of his hand, he brought the burning lines of energy into his mind again, and again went over each pattern and line, strengthening them. It was true that making an exception for Aziraphale left a potential weak point, but he couldn’t bear to hurt the angel in that way.

His mind kept flashing back to Aziraphale being attacked by Prudence and the rest of the Weird Sisters at the Academy, and how he had chosen to suffer debilitating pain rather than flex the slightest hint of angelic power, because the aftershocks of doing so would have hurt the witches.

But if Heaven was dissolving their truce, what did that mean for him and Aziraphale? Did their union still stand? Did it mean anything if their respective sides went back to war? Or would Aziraphale leave him and return to fight as a holy warrior? 

Crowley shook the thought from his head and forced himself to concentrate on building up the wards, which were like an invisible wall surrounding their home. He built them like a great stone garret and hoped it would be enough.

* * *

It was very, very late – late enough to be considered very early – by the time Crowley made his way slowly up the rickety attic stairs. Zelda had spent the whole night on the phone, calling members of the coven and appraising them of the situation. Hilda had eventually gotten Ambrose to sleep using a powerful sleeping draught, and then gone into a flurry of baking. Well, that was a useful way to deal with anxiety, he thought. At least they would have food.

His feet were heavy and he paused at the top of the attic stairs. The room was lit by an old black and white TV he’d forgotten was up there. Aziraphale and Sabrina were in the bed, propped up against the pillows, with Salem curled up between them. They had apparently drifted off while watching old movies on some late night channel. Crowley felt a swelling of emotions when he looked at them. All he wanted to do was keep them safe.

Aziraphale stirred when he turned the TV off, his face pale and eyes wide and blinking in the dim light of the attic. Crowley sat slowly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Crowley . . . oh, Crowley . . .” he said, his voice sounding very small. His hand reached for Crowley’s arm, but then stilled part ways. “I – I didn’t – I wouldn’t – I didn’t know anything--”

“Hush. I know,” said Crowley, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Aziraphale trembled against him for a moment, and then sank into the embrace. Crowley shuffled over onto the bed, lounging on the edge, on top of the blankets and holding Aziraphale. He was shaking so badly his teeth were chattering, clicking together faintly and Crowley slowly moved his hand up into Aziraphale’s hair, drawing his fingers through the short white-blonde curls.

Aziraphale nudged his narrow shoulder. “They said . . . they were very firm about how I was meant to please you. To show that Heaven was serious about the truce. It . . . it doesn’t make any sense,” he said, whispering hoarsely against Crowley’s throat.

Crowley tightened his hold on him, humming in response. He didn’t know what to say, but this further confused matters. He also couldn’t imagine that Aziraphale was lying, he’d been genuinely shaken by Lucas’ death. 

“Will this . . . will this mean the war is back on?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley sighed. “I need to speak to some people . . .”

“Demons?”

“Well . . . yeah, people, witches, demons, you know,” he almost suggested that Aziraphale make some inquiries on his end, see what Upstairs had to say on the matter. But he hesitated. Although Aziraphale was technically not “Fallen,” Heaven seemed to have turned their backs on him. If there was a larger plot afoot, there seemed little point in sending his angel blundering blindly into it. So he trailed off, pressing a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead instead.

_Don’t worry about this, please, angel, I’ll keep you safe._ He wanted to say. But maybe that would end up being a lie. So he couldn’t bring himself to say it. In the end Heaven and Hell would have their way, no matter who it hurt. There would be nothing one lowly demon could do to stop it.

Heaven and Hell played their games with no thought given to those tiny lives that got in the way. He doubted, privately, that God was so pressed about Lucas Chalfant, that She had dispatched angelic assassins to rid the world of him. So what then, was the meaning of either sides’ boasting and blustering? They would annihilate each other and take the helpless, fragile Earth with them. 

He wondered if they could pack up and go somewhere. Alpha Centuauri might just be far enough. But then he thought of Sabrina’s human friends and all of the children at the school, and he felt so tired and hollow, with a heaviness as though he were responsible for all the town – perhaps all the planet, if it all went pear-shaped. Because if the war did resume, how long then until the appearance of the anti-Christ, and the Apocalypse that would follow? He didn’t say any of this – for he knew Aziraphale was likely thinking of it all himself.

_Just let me hold him a little while longer, before the end,_ Crowley thought, begging an indifferent Universe and resolutely refusing to think of it as a prayer.

* * *

Aziraphale followed Crowley downstairs to a late breakfast with extreme reluctance. They had gotten little rest – Crowley hadn’t said much, but Aziraphale was not blind to the lines of worry and tension etching more deeply into the demon’s face. Outside the wind howled, the atmosphere in the kitchen was not much better. Neither of Crowley’s sisters would meet his gaze, and he wanted to flee, but Crowley insisted he sit – going so far as to put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and all but force him into the chair. Sabrina sat next to him, but didn’t eat anything. The silence was somehow both brittle and all-consuming.

Ambrose shuffled into the room, saw him, and nearly turned and left. Aziraphale felt his stomach drop with guilt. “Oh, please stay – I’ll go –”

“No,” Crowley growled, “no one is going anywhere.”

“Oh please,” said Zelda, “you resisted the angel joining our family for the longest time. Out of us all – you fought against this very tableau. _You_ didn’t want change – we should have listened.”

Crowley hissed even as Aziraphale raised a hand to pat awkwardly at the claw now digging into his shoulder. “It’s alright, really,” he murmured.

He felt weak – the ties binding him to this family were spun of such thin fragile strands. He could feel them trembling so that even a word might snap them all and leave him adrift – cast out of everywhere that had ever meant anything to him. Still, Crowley stood rooted behind his chair, hands pressing into his shoulders, grounding him.

“I remembered something else about – about them – last night,” said Ambrose, hesitating in the door. His grief was obvious and raw. He rubbed his face, looking like he might collapse. Hilda got up and went to him, guiding him to the chair furthest from Aziraphale.

“They called themselves the Order of Innocents.”

Aziraphale flinched.

“You know them, angel?” Crowley asked.

“I . . . y-yes. Well, the order is one of Gabriel’s projects,” he couldn’t halt his mouth from twisting in a grimace. Gabriel’s special task force, which he had started training personally when he became convinced that the angels of the host were becoming too sloppy, too soft. He was proud of them – parading them in front of Aziraphale, showing them off.

“Yeah, the Archangel Gabriel, they mentioned him,” said Ambrose.

“But that makes no sense,” he said, voice shaking. “Gabriel was the one who impressed upon me how important this peace is. He – he told me himself.”

Ambrose shook his head. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“N-no! I – I believe you! It just doesn’t make any sense – he -” Aziraphale shuddered. A flash went through his mind – _Gabriel, marching Mehitable past him, showing her off. “Beauty and power,” the Archangel said. Her long blonde hair bounced over her shoulders. “Look at her!” Gabriel enthused. “A lean, mean fighting machine! Isn’t she perfect? Now,_ this _is what an angel should look like –-” Gabriel gave him a pointed look. “You could learn something from Mehitable, you know.”_

“Perhaps they’re acting on their own – angels _can_ go rogue, can’t they?” Crowley asked. “I mean, before they fall completely.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Especially if they believe what they’re doing is the right thing.”

“ _’The right thing?!_ ’” Ambrose turned away.

Aziraphale swallowed. “I only meant . . .”

“We can’t trust anything he says,” said Zelda. She said it without cruelty, simply stating a matter of fact, lifting a hand to forestall Crowley’s objection. “He’s on their side.”

Sabrina sat up in her chair so suddenly it scraped against the ground. She gripped Aziraphale’s arm across the tabletop. “He’s on _our_ side! He lives with _us_!”

“But his _loyalty_ is not to the Dark Lord,” Zelda shot back.

“Enough,” Crowley growled. “All of you. Enough.” The plants in the windowsill quivered at his tone, their thin leaves casting wavering shadows across the table. Everyone did fall silent. They heard the coffee machine turn on, and a mouse skitter somewhere in the walls.

Aziraphale couldn’t look at Zelda. He thought she was quite right to be protecting her family. If their situations were reversed, would he be quick to trust a demon, if they were being attacked by the hordes of Hell? _Well . . . he would trust Crowley,_ the thought came to him suddenly and he was surprised by the truth of it.

He glanced at Sabrina, hunched in her chair, clutching at his arm. The poor girl looked tired and distraught. They had welcomed him into their home and now – now this was happening . . .

. . . his fault. Always, his fault . . .

Crowley finally removed his hands from Aziraphale’s shoulder, seemingly satisfied with the quiet that had fallen. Aziraphale wasn’t. He hated the return of the thick and weighted silence.

Crowley bent over Sabrina’s chair, hugging her tightly, before straightening once more and turning to the room at large. “I’ll be back later. No one is to leave the house until I return. Hilda, call the human school and tell them Sabrina has the flu or something, will you?”

Hilda nodded, but she was staring despondently into her cup of tea.

Zelda turned away, placing their dirty cutlery in the sink. Ambrose stared distantly at nothing.

When Aziraphale looked again, Crowley was gone. 

Sabrina pushed away from the table, her breakfast untouched. The sun outside went behind a cloud, casting the kitchen into darkness. No one looked at anyone else. Aziraphale felt like he was alone in the darkness, like the cell in the Bastille. Pleading would do no good and in either case, and what was left to say? He shivered, wishing Crowley would return. Outside, it began to snow.


	13. Heaven Sent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm so sorry that this has taken me forever. Thank you so much for your patience, and for all the kind comments.

Crowley hated the snow. It whipped into his face, stinging, as he materialized just outside of the Academy of Unseen Arts. Anathema met him at the front doors, multi-colored scarves wrapped around her throat. She had a harried expression on her face and her long, dark hair was a mess. “You know the situation?” he asked, quickly moving up the front steps.

She nodded and opened the doors for him. “Faustus has been working all night, getting everything in place to summon the council in the great hall. There’s been a call into Enoch of Antioch in Rome, as well . . .” she took a deep breath. Anathema was clearly worried, as well she should be – they _all_ should be. “It should be almost ready, now,” she said quietly.

“And the protections?”

“The teachers have been going over them – casting and re-casting all night. The school’s a fortress, you know. In more ways than one. No one but a member of the Church of Night can get in. But there was another attack – outside -”

“ _Another one_?” Crowley froze where he stood, heart twisting painfully in his chest. “More than . . . than Lucas?” Poor, dead Lucas, he thought, a pit in his stomach. He couldn’t forgive Heaven for that, for what they had done to Ambrose and Lucas. A wave of bitterness went through him – _Heaven,_ the Silver City, Upstairs . . . no matter what lofty names they used he didn’t believe they were truly any better than Hell. And at least demons were honest about what they were.

Anathema nodded, tugging at her scarves and twisting them around her hands. She froze before they reached the hall, in the small corridor where they could be alone for a few more moments. “I . . .” her hands fell to her sides.

“Who? Who else?” he asked. It was true that Crowley didn’t even _like_ most of these people and yet . . . this was the closest thing to a community he’d ever known in six thousand years. And none of them deserved to be murdered – butchered – by overzealous celestial in what was meant to be a time of peace. They weren’t even demons, these people . . . He brushed the hateful snow off his shoulders, using those seconds to regain some composure. “Anathema?”

She swallowed, and named Sister Shirley Jackson. His frown deepened – he knew Anathema and Shirley had never gotten along. Never seen eye-to-eye. He had always found the witch to be rather shrill and unpleasant. She was one of a group who aligned themselves with Faustus and opposed Crowley on all matters of coven policy. And yet as Anathema went on to describe the signs of torture that had been discovered on her body, he couldn’t help but shudder in sympathy. Apparently the witch had been killed more slowly than Lucas. Her hands had been removed.

No, it didn’t matter what sort of person Shirley had been, or that they hadn’t been friends – this couldn’t be allowed to stand. The anger rolled back over him, like a dark wave. To be honest, though a demon, Crowley rarely felt such depths of wrath. His hands trembled and he shoved them into the pockets of his coat.

“Why . . . why would the angels do this?” Anathema asked.

“They want something from us,” he shook his head, scowling. It felt like the start of an invasion. That was his fear and one he found he could not voice to her. He trusted Anathema, knew she wouldn’t cause a panic, but he didn’t want to scare her. Not anymore than she was already.

“Crowley,” she grabbed his arm before he could go on, through the door at the end of the hall. She bit her lip, not meeting his gaze. “They’re saying . . . Aziraphale . . .”

“It’s nothing to do with Aziraphale!” he snapped.

Anathema didn’t flinch from him, only tightened her hold on his arm. “That’s good to hear, but you should know, they’re all blaming him. It could get ugly. Just . . . be prepared.”

Crowley glanced from Anathema to the dark halls beyond them. He knew everything would be lit by flickering candles in iron sconces and red-shaded lamps. Everything would be murky, the light flickering. It would strain his snake-eyes, but he was used to that. “. . . Blackwood and the others?” He was not surprised, but it was a wrinkle they didn’t need at a time when so much was at stake.

She nodded. “He’s the first angel to live in Greendale, right?”

Really, he should have known the entire coven would be thirsting for Aziraphale’s blood – Blackwood hadn’t liked him from the start. Still. _Aziraphale is mine,_ he thought - the long-suppressed demonic side of him fairly growling. This was too much – the attacks on _his_ community, on _his_ family, on _his_ – _HIS_ \- Oh yes, Crowley was feeling a tad bit possessive. He would have enjoyed nothing more than smashing Faustus Blackwood’s smug face in. But he knew that wouldn’t do any good. Not right now. They had bigger things to worry about it. And Aziraphale was safe.

He rolled his shoulders, itching with tension and stress. And because he felt he had to say something, because she was still holding onto him and he could feel the fear rising off her skin – he said, “bad times are coming, witch girl.”

Anathema swallowed. “Don’t . . . don’t kill anyone in there, alright?”

Crowley grimaced. “No promises,” he said and sauntered into the great hall. 

The great hall was an imposing space at the best of times, with its grim statue of the Dark Lord and pentacle-patterned floor. Now it was absolutely filled with coven members dressed for the occasion in flowing black robes. Everyone was arranged. A circular dais had been erected in the center of the largest pentagram laid into the school’s stone floor. Ornate wooden thrones were set for the three infernal judges – the Unholy Trivium – and a long table and chairs were placed for the other esteemed members of the Dark Council. The fires in the hall were stoked high, spitting red flames and filling the air with acrid herb-scented smoke.

Witches and warlocks, all of them high ranking members of the Church of Night, were gathered. He noticed a crowd of loyal adherents around Blackwood, as usual. He had to remind himself that one of their friends had been tortured and killed. That deserved some lenience, but not if they went after Aziraphale. They looked at him nervously as he entered, whispering. There were careful glances. He could taste their suspicion in the air on his tongue.

Crowley paused at the front of the hall and removed his dark glasses. He opened his black wings. They spread out behind him and witches moved back, stumbling over themselves to give way.

Silence fell, as even Father Blackwood stared at him with something like awe. The fact of the matter was that Crowley went through a lot of effort to get along. He took pains to not to be too scary, too monstrous. But member of their community or no, headmaster of their school or no, married to an angel or no – Crowley was still a demon, one of the Fallen, and it was high time they all remembered it.

“Summon the Dark Council,” he said, in a voice that brokered no dissent. And though he was only head of the school and Father Blackwood was technically leader of their coven, not one person voiced an objection or hesitated to obey.

Moments later, they began to appear, shifting through the air and shadows. The warlock members of the council came first – Clive and Carpenter. Then Methuselah, and Crowley wasn’t honestly entirely sure if he was man, warlock or demon. Perhaps he didn’t know himself at this point.

Beelzebub emerged next, looking rumpled as usual and bitterly angry. Their black uniform was ragged and mussed, hair disheveled. Flies danced around their head, alighting variously on their tiny shoulders and crawling through their thick black hair. “What’s this about, Crowley? You better have a good reason for dragging us back to the ass-end of the universe.”

“Heaven,” he said simply, holding their gaze.

“. . . _Heaven_ ,” the demon repeated, blinking slowly. Crowley had the impression that a billion miniature pairs of eyes blinked with them. “Very well . . .” they took their seat at the table. Methuselah and the others promptly followed suit.

The fires in the hearths all died as the room darkened. The temperature plummeted. Crowley barely felt it, but witches' breath misted the air and, out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Anathema rub her arms from the cold.

The infernal three appeared at last, looking as though they had always been there, seated stiffly upon their high-backed thrones. Their skin was corpse-like and putrefying, their mouths full of fangs and eyes covered with strips of black leather. Did they even have eyes anymore? Scratch that, Crowley really didn’t want to know. Hell had crafted them after he had been pushed to the surface to cause trouble.

“Who Summons the Infernal Court?” they demanded in one voice.

“Lord Crowley, Prince of Hell, and the followers of the Church of Night.”

“. . . the Court recognizes Lord Crowley, Prince of Hell,” the Trivium hissed, spitting through their jagged teeth.

He stood tall, wings outstretched as he addressed them. “Greendale is under attack. A pair of angels, under the command of the Archangel Gabriel, have killed two members of the Church of Night,” he launched into an explanation, relaying what had happened to Lucas and Shirley. The demons of the trivium were silent throughout, seething – he felt it, the miasma of their anger, dripping off the walls of the academy. He pushed on, ignoring it.

When they broke to confer, they vanished entirely. Crowley wasn’t sure what that meant – if they were retreating to Hell, perhaps they even had communication with the Boss. His throat was dry. He resisted the urge to pace, or to seek out any of the coven members. Blackwood and the rest maintained their distance and he didn’t want to draw their ire towards Anathema by approaching her. He was aware of her at his back, though, and heard her gasp.

Crowley turned, frowning – to see Beelzebub pushing their way towards him. Their face was twisted into a sour knot. “Alright,” they said, flies buzzing. “You’re coming with me.”

He frowned. “We’re in the middle of something, Beez.”

“It’s not a choice. The Boss wants to see you.”

Crowley stared at them. He worked very hard not react, all the while wondering if Beelzebub was somehow in communication with the Trivium, or even Lucifer Himself. He drew in a breath, carefully keeping his expression neutral. “. . . alright.” It wasn’t as though he had a choice and they both knew it. “But the Coven. I mean. This is important, Beez. You must see that.”

They sneered at him, eyes utterly black and fathomless. “We’ll keep an eye on things topside. Don’t worry, the Boss cares about this. You know Greendale is his pet project.”

Crowley hoped that was true. Satan was as fond of his witches as he was of anything, but Crowley didn’t doubt he would let them all be slaughtered if there was somehow an advantage in it. Everything and everyone were just pawns in Lucifer’s eternal fight with their Creator. He knew this.

Hastur and Ligur rose slowly out of the floor. Ligur was grinning unpleasantly, while Hastur just scowled. Probably still put out from their botched attempt at killing his family. “What are the goons doing here?” he asked, throwing a glare at Beelzebub. "I said I'd come - no need to make a production out of it."

“Just a little insurance. The Boss is quite keen to see you.”

The demonic stink was beginning to fill the confines of the hall and witches and warlocks turned to watch the exchange, though most were wise enough to give them a wide berth. The Infernal Court had not returned with a verdict. The air was thick with dread and slowly simmering panic.

If they were on the verge of war, real all-out celestial war – didn’t the Boss have more pressing concerns than getting Sabrina’s name in his book? Beelzebub’s face said that _no_ , apparently He did not.

“Alright, I’m coming,” he said, trying to sound aloof. Bored. Beelzebub no doubt saw right through him – the other two he wasn’t so sure about.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Hastur, grabbing his arm in a bruising grip. Ligur was at his back, digging the point of a knife into his coat. He felt the cold press of steel against his spine. “You know what we’re going to do to your precious angel once the Dark Lord’s had his way with you? You’re not gonna be a prince for much longer. Word is, he’s very disappointed. You’ve been failing to deliver. And once you’re out of the way, it’s going to be _our_ turn to play house.”

He didn’t say anything – it wasn’t worth expending the effort on Hastur and he was busy trying to think of excuses, bargains, whatever, that would appease the Boss. His silence only made Hastur angrier and a fist exploded against his face. He didn’t fall – though a human certainly would have – but the pain expanded like a flower and he was momentarily blinded. He felt the pull of them descending – a dip and drop like going over the edge of a mountain –

and then the air smelt of sulfur and ash. A clawed hand dug sharply into his back, catching on his wings and scattering feathers in bloody chunks.

Crowley stumbled forwards, blood running from the wound and fell to his knees on the burning ground. It scorched his hands and he yelped, scrambling up again, and turning to see that Hastur and Ligur had vanished – the world had vanished.

He was in Hell. The Dark Lord stood before him, snout wrinkling, fangs barred, eyes like collapsing stars.

“ _CRAWLEY_.” Voice like rocks grinding against one another.

He swallowed, forcing his trembling body into a bow, ignoring the pain as it tugged his fresh wound further open. “My Lord.”

“HOW COULD YOU BE SO FOOLISH, CRAWLEY? THE GIRL MUST SIGN –”

His breath came in shakily. He was about to do something very stupid, but he couldn’t help himself – Crowley opened his mouth: “With all due respect, Your Satanic Majesty, there may be a war going on – _the_ War, in fact. Angels are attacking Greendale and murdering _your_ people and we all might have more to worry about than –” _. . . than your pride._ He was going to say. But no, that was not the thing to say to Lucifer Morningstar.

A howl emerged – not from the Beast, but from the very air, from the shaking ground, from every dimension and direction. Eyes burning, the Dark Lord advanced on him, and Crowley's body seized in agony. Unable to move, jaw clamping shut so fast he cracked teeth. Ropes of fire wound around his legs – his tail – he wasn’t sure what he was anymore, what body he had. All he knew was pain and his master’s claws around his throat. Hissing in his ear, in his skull.

“YOU FOOL, CRAWLEY. THE LONGER SABRINA DOES NOT SIGN, THE WEAKER GREENDALE WILL BE.”

_No. It can't be – makes no sense. The Devil’s power isn’t impacted so dramatically by one single witch. Besides, Lucifer gave them their powers, not – not the other way –_

It was getting harder to think. The Beast roared, throwing him to the ground. But his suffering was only just beginning.

* * *

Gabriel was having one of the most irritating meetings of his life. Why was he surrounded by so much flagrant incompetence? Not only had it taken Jerathmiel and Mehitable _two_ attempts to retrieve the information he wanted, but they had allowed witnesses to escape and worst of all, somehow managed to incriminate him in the process.

He’d trained them better than that – they were meant to retrieve information on the shielded zones (which had turned out to be a school, of all things) and not to be seen to be doing it. Let the witches think it was humans, or better yet, other witches, carrying out the acts. So much for that, as Hell was now requesting a formal summit.

Michael’s expression was concerned bordering on unimpressed. No matter how tantalizing their new intelligence was, it was useless if they gave the game away so early on. He forced himself to smile, all the while imagining how he would punish them – he’d dearly like to rip Jerathmiel’s feathers out one at time himself. And yet, perhaps the stupid angels could be put to a better purpose. A higher purpose. They were expendable, after all.

But he would have to find some way to relax before then.

He summoned Gideon, the one of his order he had not deployed to Earth, and ordered the angel to strip. He was obedient and did as he was told, silently and with eyes downcast. Gabriel took a fistful of his golden hair and tugged him roughly over towards his desk, shoving him over it. “Don’t make a sound,” he commanded.

Gabriel had him, brutally and efficiently. He was pleased when the angel cried out in pain, because it meant he could punish him for it afterwards. 

* * *

The summit was held in Limbo. Though to the mortal souls who were sentenced there, Limbo was a foggy place – a threshold, a dark forest without end where they were pursued by Soul-Stealing entities – to the assembly of angels and demons it was quite different. Merely a neutral zone, the mists of Purgatory retreated from them, unwilling to draw near, and the result was a landscape as similar to a blank page as it is possible to be. This was unclaimed space – God had been bored, left it blank.

Both sides created a amphitheater which appeared, unraveling seat by stone seat into the landscape, large enough to comfortably hold their vast numbers. The demons naturally fell together on the left – a variety of shapes and forms, phantasmagorical grotesqueries - while the angels, without question, formed tight ranks on the right all keeping their human forms, pressed suits and stiff posture. They wore their bodies as though unused to them, most failing even to blink.

Gabriel was momentarily surprised that Crowley and Aziraphale were not in attendance – after all, their union was at the heart of this whole debacle - but neither was Lucifer Morningstar. The demons representing Hell were numerous, however - a veritable _Who’s Who_ of the Underworld. He saw Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies was chief among them, in a tattered uniform complete with rusty medals and a sash. But then he caught sight of Leviathan, Mamman, Asmodeus . . . while Heaven’s side was represented by himself, Uriel, Sandalphon, and then several angels of lower rank.

The three demons known as the Infernal Court appeared in the circular center of the stage, addressing the assembly. He listened intently, anger increasing as the Order of Innocents was named and connected to him. But he hid his anger, smiling wanly as the court addressed him in turn.

He had trained the Order of Innocents, yes. They were the Crusaders of Heaven, yes. However, he had _no idea_ what they were doing on Earth. And anyways, wasn’t Greendale meant to be shielded against celestial intervention? But of _course,_ Heaven took the treaty seriously, he assured them. Of _course_ they upheld the union between Heaven and Hell. He said all this, all the right words – that the murder of two of the Church of Night was unfortunate, but the result of two misguided rogues and not sanctioned by Heaven itself.

Heaven wanted only peace and goodwill.

Beelzebub, in the front row, one leg crossed over the other, slouched back on the low stone seat and looked up at him. They snorted derisively. Unimpressed. Gabriel’s expression momentarily cracked, but he wrestled it back under control. The smile. The energy. He clapped his hands. “Now, what can we do to make this right?”

“Justice,” hissed the three demonic judges with one voice. “Justice must be served.”

“Yeah,” Beelzebub drawled, a cloud of flies buzzing around their head in a messy dark halo. Or like a child had scribbled with charcoal over an old photograph, obscuring the subject’s face. “What about it, Gabe? Talk is cheap - will you be willing to see justice done to your precious little ‘crusaders?’ Or is this all just more of Heaven’s empty promises?”

A smattering of applause among the demons at that, but the archangel was unruffled. He merely smiled wider, nodding towards Beelzebub solicitously. “Of course, of course. The Silver City is eager to make amends.”

The flies buzzed questioningly. A demon like a round little frog jumped up and down, squishy with slime in its seat. “This I’d like to see!”

“So be it,” the judges intoned and in a snap Mehitable and Jerathmiel were brought before them, bound in unholy chains. Gabriel felt another flicker of irritation. He had certainly trained the idiots better than to get caught, but it hardly mattered now. They were pale, wide-eyed in terror, looking more like frightened human teenagers than angelic beings. He felt another sliver of disgust – oh well, they had served their purpose, gathered some information for him. It was more than time to be done with this phase of Heaven’s plan.

Mehitable opened her mouth, but the demons were making too much of a commotion for anyone to hear her. Beelzebub was the only one who appeared to notice, sitting up, flies scattering, descending upon the young angels. The flies were listening, damn it –

Gabriel was one of the most powerful archangels in all of creation, and so he cast the miracle without anyone noticing. Mehitable and Jerathmiel lost their voices. They stared around with wide, panicked eyes, unable to lift their chains, unable to speak, drowned out by the roaring of the crowd calling for their blood. He settled back with a satisfied smirk, catching Beelzebub’s frustrated scowl. The flies retreated.

The demon was frowning, studying the unfolding scene as though disconcerted by it. Which was odd, he would have thought they would have joined in the rejoicing over the killing of two angels. Ah well, they might suspect, but they would have no proof. And there was no time to dwell on it.

A lesser demon approached the circle and created the blazing column of hellfire. He was pleased that the angels in the front rows didn’t do anything embarrassing like flinch back from the sudden heat – though it was the only substance in the universe that could destroy an angel, not merely discorporate. True death and erasure. The crackling heat filled Limbo, searing the ground and flashing in impossibly long bright tongues up to the sky.

Beside him, Uriel made a low, pitying sound, shaking their head sadly. “Poor young things,” they said in a quiet voice meant only for him. “After all, their only crime was killing Lilith’s brood and that shouldn’t be considered a crime. They would have been given medals if the War was on.”

“Peace, Uriel,” Gabriel’s smile was all sharp edges. He too spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “The loss of a few pawns is no cause for distress, this early in the game.”

He released the miracle holding the angels’ tongues as they stepped into the flames, concerned at the last moment that it might be suspicious if they didn’t scream. And scream they did, harsh rippling shrieks of agony as the bright fire licked over their skin and hair, consuming the wings that burst from their backs. A few of the angels in attendance shuddered and averted their gaze, though all remained properly still and stoic. As was right. Gabriel smiled.

* * *

Crowley stumbled home late. Very late. He drove like a drunk, and if not for the Bentley being infused with so much demonic energy he would have crashed it into a tree, or a lamp-post, or the mailbox. As it was, he did manage to demolish one of the headstones in their family plot, before staggering out in the glare of the headlights, nearly falling over his own legs as they twisted weakly beneath him. He had miracled a new black jacket, which hid the worst of the wounds. But blood kept running out of the ends of the sleeves, dripping off his hands. His shaking hands.

_Damn it,_ he looked down at the long streams of blood, but was too weary to miracle it away. His face was thick with sweat and he was shivering. He looked up at the house – the familiar dark walls, orange light glowing in the windows of the first floor - and it swam out of his vision, like film reel jogged loose and left spinning out of the projector . . .

He was in so much pain.

_Please let them be asleep. Please let them all be asleep . . . so I can curl up and lick my wounds and in the morning, maybe . . . maybe in the morning . . ._ his thoughts shuddered to a jittery halt.

He barely made it to the front porch, then had to pull himself up along the railing, shuffling to the door. Inch by agonized inch. His hands were too slippery with blood to turn the door handle, so he fell against it weakly, groaning.

A moment later, he heard footsteps on the other side. He tried to straighten, tried to hide the pain, but couldn’t.

Zelda opened the door and he collapsed into her arms. She grunted in surprise, swaying on her heels, but caught him and held him. Zelda had always been stronger than she looked. Stronger than him, when you got down to it. His breath came out in a ragged sob.

“Crowley.”

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the divan in the living room, his coat and shirt peeled off. He blinked, vision hazy and dark. The room was dimly lit by the wall lamps and blue light filtering in through the drapes. His mouth tasted like bile and blood. She sat beside him, he glimpsed her long blue skirts, and a bowl of water rested there with some towels – she was washing the ragged wounds on his back. He listened to her wring out the cloth, the splatter of water and blood . . .

“They tore out your wings,” she said. Her voice carefully devoid of inflection.

“Yes. Ugh. They’ll grow back,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and groaning into his arm.

She paused in her ministrations and he could feel the arch of her eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he said. “If they wanted it to be permanent, they would have doused the wounds with holy water. It's just a physical corporation. I'll be fine.”

After a moment, she began washing his back again. “The others are upstairs. I could wake Hilda, she’s better at this than I am . . . or – or your angel.”

 _My angel._ He smiled into the cushion, though it turned into a grimace of pain as Zelda hit a raw spot. She paused again at his flinch. “N-no,” he told her. “Don’t bother them . . . I’ll recover. Demon, remember?”

Zelda was a silent presence at his side. He felt her watching over him. After a long while she asked. “. . . who?” her voice broke slightly. He thought she knew. “Who did this to you?”

“You _know_ who, Zelda.”

She fell silent again. He thought she would argue, or deny it, or try to justify it . . . perhaps he had even been scared of that, in a way, but she did none of those things. “. . . Shall I help you upstairs?” she asked, at last.

“Nah, I’ll kip down here tonight.”

“Crowley.”

“It’ll be better in the morning. You’ll see.”

“Hmm,” she did not sound convinced. He watched her gather the bloody cloths and ointments back up. “Anathema phoned, after you . . . were detained. She informed us of the council’s verdict. Apparently, the angels acted alone and faced judgement-”

“What? Already?”

That couldn’t be right – the wheels of justice never turned _that_ fast, not even in the celestial realm.

“It’s been done. They say we have nothing to fear.”

_They’re lying._

“Yes, well. I quite agree.”

Crap. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. His head was still hazy, foggy. He needed to rest. “Zelda . . .”

“I won’t let them take you again,” she said and he frowned, turning his head to the side to watch her stand. Her face was pale, her eyes dark and shadowed. She looked older – how many centuries had they been together now? Once upon a time, Zelda and Hilda had been like children compared to him, now they all looked roughly the same age (in mortal terms), how much longer – how much longer would he have them? That wasn’t a good thought.

“Don’t put yourself in harm’s way,” he told her.

She merely glanced at him in a way that told him exactly what she thought of that.

“It’s the Dark Lord’s will – Zelda –”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. So quietly he barely heard her, and he blinked in confusion, struggling to sit up even though his back was on fire. His limbs creaked stiffly, trembling beneath him. But this –

Zelda loved the Dark Lord more than any of them. She was devoted. A true believer. She –

She met his gaze for one moment, before sighing and turning away. “Please, Crowley. I’m very tired.”

He slowly sank back down against the couch. The fire was crackling in the grate and outside, it had begun to snow again. He had to protect them. His family. No matter what.

And still, the Dark Lord’s words echoed in his head: _Sabrina has to sign the book. Every day she does not sign, Greendale grows weaker._

He woke to find Aziraphale looking over him worriedly. Crowley tried to get up, but failed – the pain of his still raw wounds was like an anchor pulling his body towards the ground. He groaned. “’m fine, angel,” he said, and felt Aziraphale’s warm, soothing touch along his flayed back.

“I should say not,” said Aziraphale. “My dear – what in the world happened to you? Who-who could even have – ah it wasn’t – wasn’t –”

“It was demons,” he said and sighed as the angelic healing sank into his bones. He relaxed back into the cushions. “Just the usual demon bullshit. Uh, I hear Heaven’s not going to war with us after all, so that’s a good thing.”

Aziraphale hummed, but he looked worried. Deeply worried. He sat beside Crowley, as Zelda had done the night before. Crowley sat up, now fully healed, to rest beside him on the couch. He ran a hand through his long, red hair, and sighed. “Yeah – I know,” he said quietly. “But I also don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Heaven _wants_ the treaty to succeed,” said Aziraphale, but he sounded less than certain of it. He fidgeted in his seat, wringing his hands.

Crowley placed a hand on his wrist, gently. “Hey.”

Before he could say anymore, Sabrina came downstairs and into the living room. Her hair was a messy blonde cloud around her head and she was wearing rumpled pajamas. She looked relieved to see him. “You’re back.”

Aziraphale subtly drew away from him, which made Crowley frown, but he was still rather dizzy. The pain may have retreated, thanks to Zelda and Aziraphale, but it was replaced by a body-wide ache. He forced himself to smile for Sabrina. “Yep. Everything’s alright.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Seriously?”

“Right – right as –” _SHE HAS TO SIGN THE BOOK SIGN THE BOOK SIGN TH_ E “-rain.” The grin was becoming slightly pained, slightly manic.

She looked doubtful, but shuffled across the room in her slippers. “O-kay . . .”

_SABRINA HAS TO_ – he groaned, leaning forwards and caught his head in his hands. Splinters of red-hot fire were making their way through his skull.

Aziraphale put a hand slowly – hesitantly – on his back and the pain retreated once again. Crowley looked up, blinking, and checked to make sure that Sabrina had moved onto the kitchen and was no longer listening – “they want her to sign the Book of the Beast – Downstairs, does,” he admitted quietly. “In fact they’re fairly – uh – adamant about it.”

Aziraphale looked concerned, but also faintly puzzled. “Ah. Well . . . and please, don’t take this the wrong way, but you _are_ a demon. I’m afraid I don’t really understand . . .”

“Because she doesn’t want to,” he said, slumping back. At Aziraphale’s puzzled look he added, “big believer in free will, me.”

The angel smiled at him then – a smile so fleetingly soft and sad it made Crowley’s heart clench.

* * *

Aziraphale was worried, but Crowley maintained that everything was going to be fine, so he did his best to push those thoughts away, to stifle his inner catastrophizing. Even if part of him knew better than to take the Heavenly authorities at their word, he also knew that reaching out to them for answers was unlikely to yield anything more helpful. And he cringed inwardly at even the thought of doing so – although he had been promised that he would not “Fall” through his marriage to Crowley, he also doubted Michael would take his call. And if she did, it would only be to reiterate the statements which had come down through the Infernal Court.

This left him feeling helpless and more and more untethered from his new family. Crowley didn’t want to talk about it. The demon had grown more distant, falling silent for long periods of time and frequently leaving to lie down, claiming headaches. Whenever Aziraphale offered to help ease them, Crowley declined. Gently, but still. Zelda, Hilda and Ambrose weren’t openly hostile, but they had begun to ignore him – treating him as though he wasn’t there at all – and he knew that they still blamed him for Lucas’s death.

When Sabrina was at school or hanging out with her human friends, and Crowley was at the Academy or meeting with the coven, he felt unwelcome and adrift in their house.

He was wary of Heaven – they all were – but as the weeks rolled by and no further attacks occurred, they all began to relax. Crowley was no longer so concerned about them leaving the house, as long as they stayed out of the woods and the mines, and Aziraphale began spending his days at Doctor Cerberus’s shop. Sometimes, he met Anathema there for a cup of tea. Other times, he went alone and read or chatted with Cee. It was nice and he almost felt normal in those times – very nearly like a human being.

So, one day in early December, Aziraphale found himself in _Cerberus Books_ , browsing the stacks in an otherwise deserted store. Doctor Cee was in the back, and business was typically slower during the day when the local kids were in school, so he thought nothing of it, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere – the hum of the large coffee machines in the back, by the café and the bustle of traffic outside –

He _felt_ rather than saw the entity materialize behind him.

Aziraphale’s hand froze on its way to the shelf. His body locked up, even his breath lodged in his throat. His heart leapt, stuttering painfully in his chest and he hardly dared to move his head. Terrified of what - or rather, who - he would see standing beside him.

“Ah. So here you are. Typical.”

_Gabriel._

A shiver crawled across Aziraphale’s skin. He turned slowly, blinking and trying to force his uncooperative mouth into a smile. “Lord-Lord Gabriel. What. Um.”

The archangel was in his typical expensive bespoke suit, white and arctic greys. His dark hair was slicked back and his smile was sharp as knives. He loomed over Aziraphale, pinning him in the narrow aisle of the stacks. Aziraphale swallowed. “This. This is a surprise.”

_Would he never be free of Heaven?_

Gabriel’s smile widened. He rubbed his hands together. “Isn’t it, though? I must say, Aziraphale. We’ve been monitoring your progress with the demon known as Crowley for some time . . . who would have thought he wouldn’t drag you straight to Hell? Happy accident, huh?”

Aziraphale was aware of the silence in the rest of the shop. He wondered if he ran – but then, one couldn’t outrun Heaven. He shifted slightly, unsure what to say, assuming that if he waited long enough Gabriel would get to the point.

He was correct. The archangel looked at him. “Well, it’s all worked out. I have to say. And of course it would, wouldn’t it? Part of the Divine Plan, and all that. You’re now in the perfect position to help Heaven get a leg up on these degenerate freaks and win the War.”

Aziraphale blanched. He felt the blood leaving his corporeal face and looked around nervously, though he knew that if Doctor Cee _did_ happen to overhear, the conversation would make no sense to him. “But . . . but the treaty – I – I thought –”

“Yes, yes,” Gabriel gestured impatiently, his smile slipping for the moment into a displeased scowl. “The ‘marriage.’ The charade that got us here.” Gabriel rolled his eyes at Aziraphale’s increasingly horrified expression . . . “Come on, don’t be so stupid,” he said. “The War will be over when we’ve wiped every single one of them off the face of Creation.”

“But – but the vows – and – and you made me – you said – _YOU_ said –” Aziraphale was very nearly hyperventilating when Gabriel reached out and clapped him roughly on the shoulder. He flinched, gasping and squeezed his eyes shut, but the expected blow never came. He heard Gabriel laughing – his fake, boisterous laugh and speaking to someone else . . . _Cerberus_. He opened his eyes, to see owner standing on the other side of the shelves, looking nervously between them.

“Hey . . . hey, Aziraphale. Everything, uh, alright here?”

He swallowed, catching Gabriel’s glare out of the corner of his eye, and struggled with all his might to keep up a cheery smile. “Y-yes. This is an old f-friend of mine. Gabriel. Gabriel, this is Doctor Cerberus."

Gabriel’s lip curled faintly at the name. “Human?” he muttered under his breath. Aziraphale nodded frantically, heart racing, terrified the archangel was going to obliterate the poor man – reduce him to a pillar of salt or-or – but Gabriel only smiled and shook hands and spit out some nonsense small talk phrases until the man retreated.

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath, nearly sagging against the shelves behind him, when Gabriel turned back to him with a frown. “You’re getting entirely too close to humans again,” he said in a low voice. “But enough of that now – we have work to do. You’re going to get your demon husband to tell you everything about this so-called Church of Night – and why it’s so special to the Adversary. We know about the school now, and I want details – entrances and exits, their defenses, are there any other demons in the vicinity, apart from Crowley? And how do we neutralize him when we make our attack –”

“Attack?!” Aziraphale yelled, despite himself. His body shook, but the words poured out: “but-but you can’t attack! It’s a _school_! For - well, for Someone's sake! They’re _children!_ ”

Gabriel crowded into him, leaning down and shoving Aziraphale back, against the shelf so that the wooden corner drove sharply into his spine. “They are the enemy!” he growled. “And they’re not human. They’re the descendants of Lilith, the traitor. And everyone we _don’t_ kill will grow up to be an enemy soldier in Lucifer’s Infernal army.”

Aziraphale stared at the archangel with wide eyes. He swallowed, throat dry. “Well I . . . I don’t know about any of that,” he said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. He fidgeted, twisting his hands. He knew he had to lie, and he lied desperately. “I’ve-I’ve never been there. He doesn’t talk about – about Downstairs business – w-with me.”

Gabriel sneered. “ _Riiiight._ Just uses you to warm his bed, does he?” he gave Aziraphale a disgusted look. As though the entire business of the marriage – whatever it was, whatever it was proving to be – had been up to Aziraphale. “You should be ashamed . . . an angel, to be soiled by one of the Fallen. You’re tainted, Aziraphale. No one in Heaven could even stand to look at you now – at what you’ve become. Such a fucking slut.”

Aziraphale’s face flushed. He couldn’t meet Gabriel’s gaze. He stared at the floor, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. His mind was spinning – he thought he had been doing what he was _supposed_ to do, and he knew that Gabriel was far more monstrous than Crowley, but the words still cut into him. The derision. Shame boiled through him, leaving him shaky. He felt the sting of tears hot against the back of his eyelids.

“But _this_ is your purpose, Aziraphale – get this information for me. Find out everything about the school – how to get in, how to block off the exits, how to disarm the witches and any demons foolish enough to be protecting them.”

“I . . .” he couldn’t breathe. Swallowed, nodded, so that Gabriel would leave. _Please leave. Please, please leave –_

“You have a week,” said Gabriel. “And I want to know _everything_.”

* * *

Aziraphale went home, feeling exhausted and numb, jumping at every shadow and sudden noise. He _needed_ to see Crowley, but didn’t want to bother him. What could he even say – _I’m a traitor. I’m going to betray you._ No, obviously not. He already knew he wasn’t going to tell Gabriel anything, but what would that mean, when the archangel returned? Would he be dragged back to Heaven? Would he be put on trial? Destroyed? He felt heavy and so tired . . .

Crowley was home when he got there, though the demon also looked worn and thin these days, with dark circles under his eyes. He rubbed his face when Aziraphale came into the living room, popping the sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose. Even though they’d established that Aziraphale didn’t mind his eyes – in fact, he felt a pang at the sight of the shades, they were yet another barrier between the two of them.

“Everything okay, angel?” Crowley asked, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Oh – oh yes,” he swallowed, unable to meet the black blank gaze of the sunglasses. He shivered, crossing the room to sit beside Crowley on the couch. They were here again, side by side, but Aziraphale felt like they were a million miles apart. He couldn’t relax. His shoulders were tight, his throat dry. He worried that Crowley would see his hands shaking and ask questions. What could he say? Should he tell him about Gabriel, but – no, no, no, no – he just wanted to be with Crowley, to enjoy the moment while he could. To forget what was coming.

“Angel . . .” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Are you s-”

“How about you, my dear? How’s your head?”

“Ugh,” Crowley pulled a face. “It’s . . . it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Was that a dismissal? Aziraphale frowned, worried, but Crowley softly touched his back. The demon's fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck. Some of the tension dissipated as he leaned into the touch. When he opened his eyes, Crowley was watching him.

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, but in the end he decided it would be okay . . . he reached up and removed Crowley’s glasses. For a moment, he held his breath, but Crowley only gave him a faint, tired smile. _The circles under his eyes . . . he looks unwell._ Aziraphale swallowed. How could he add to that? And would Crowley believe him if he told him he had no intentions of betraying them to Heaven?

He might . . . but, wouldn’t he always wonder? Every time he looked at Aziraphale, he would have to doubt and question . . . and the idea of Crowley distancing himself from Aziraphale – as his sisters had already done – filled him with cold dread.

“Crowley, I want to be with you,” he whispered, licking his lips.

Crowley nudged their shoulders together. His smile softened. “You _are_ with me, angel.”

“But . . . umm . . .” he felt more relaxed, as Crowley’s fingers trailed down his arm and found his hand. He slid their hands together and Aziraphale leaned against him, breathing in the smell of him. _Just, everything . . ._

After a moment, he felt the feather-light brush of Crowley’s lips against his forehead. “Do you want to go upstairs, angel?” he whispered. Aziraphale nodded, keeping his eyes closed. He felt like he was floating in another world – this could not be the same world in which Gabriel and Heaven were waging their war . . . just thinking about it made his heart start racing again and he found himself clutching Crowley’s jacket tightly. He froze when he realized what he was doing and forced his hand to unclench, blushing. “Sorry . . . ah . . .”

Crowley smiled. Thankfully, he only seemed amused. He stood, pulling Aziraphale up with him. “Don’t worry about it . . .” he murmured.

They stood in the living room, lit by the soft glow of the lamps and the dying fire. The radio crackled distantly and they swayed together for a moment in the middle of the floor – caught between standing and dancing. Crowley’s arms were around him, a hand at his back. Aziraphale relaxed against him, his head resting on Crowley’s shoulder _. I want to stay like this . . ._

They made their way upstairs slowly, the wood of the old house creaking beneath them with each step. He was vaguely aware of voices in other rooms – Hilda and Zelda were arguing about something, Ambrose was watching a movie, Sabrina was on the phone with Harvey – and then they were up in the attic.

Crowley helped Aziraphale out of his jacket and tie, belt and shoes, and Aziraphale did the same for him. They lay side-by-side, partially clothed, touching softly, occasionally kissing. Aziraphale relished the soft press of Crowley’s lips and his sighs –

“Aziraphale . . . that night. Our wedding night . . . that awful night . . . was that your first, uh, your first time?”

“No,” Aziraphale sat up, running his fingers along Crowley’s chest, his white undershirt. He smiled a little uncertainly. “Why ‘that awful night?’ That was the beginning of . . . of us . . . unless . . .” he withdrew his hand, “unless you don’t want – me.”

“No, angel,” Crowley grabbed his hand and brought it to his lips kissing his wrist, his palm, his fingers. “I don’t regret marrying you. But that night . . . come on, it was a bad night. We can say that. I hurt you.”

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head vehmently, “you were gentle.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. He blinked, snake eyes looking up at him, heavy-lidded and tired. “I –” he appeared to be searching his memory for that night. “I don’t think . . .”

Aziraphale leaned forwards, kissing him. Crowley hummed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulling him closer, until he was on top of him. But when Aziraphale drew back, the worried look returned.

“Aziraphale . . . I – alright, I shoved that night into a box at the back of my brain, but – err – I think we ought to talk about it.”

Something must have shown on his face, because Crowley sat up. “I mean – don’t you?”

“I . . .” Crowley’s hand against his face. He swallowed and shook his head. “I . . .” Crowley looked concerned, but Aziraphale couldn’t – not now – he snuggled closer to Crowley instead, pushing them both back against the pillows. “Can we just . . . can you just hold me, right now?”

Crowley was quiet for a moment, but then he wiggled a bit, settling against the pillows and pulled Aziraphale against him. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “. . . ‘course, angel,” he said quietly. "Whatever you want."

_Whatever I want._

Aziraphale pressed his face into Crowley's neck, worried the tears were coming. Worried he wouldn't be able to stop them if they did. He took a deep breath, concentrating on Crowley - the way he smelt, the warmth of him, the feel of his arms holding Aziraphale tightly. No other thoughts. No past - no Gabriel, no Bastille, no burning bookstore, none of it. And no future.

No future.

Dear God.

He only had one week.


	14. Hell Bent

Something was clearly troubling Aziraphale, but he wouldn’t speak to Crowley about it. Crowley knew he should try a bit harder to get him to open up, but the pain in his head was almost constant now – a deep rumbling ache, splintering out into red-hot lines that burned at the back of his eyes. Even his teeth ached. He could hear the Dark Lord’s growling voice, an ever-present mantra: _THE GIRL MUST SIGN THE GIRL MUST SIGN THE GIRL MUST SIGN._

To be honest, he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out – _as long as necessary,_ he told himself. _As necessary to protect Sabrina . . . to save her from this. To not own herself._

He sighed, entering the Academy of Unseen Arts for yet another meeting – he felt like he’d gone to a hundred bloody coven meetings in the past week. Although the angels who attacked Greendale had been dealt with and the armistice was still in place, the school and the coven remained on edge.

Crowley understood, and there was only so much he could do to ease their concerns.

Now, sitting around a table with his sister, Zelda, as well as Faustus Blackwood, Faustus’s wife, Constance, Anathema Device, and others, he found himself drifting in and out of the discussion, rubbing his forehead and slumping forwards in his seat. He knew Zelda and Anathema were casting him concerned looks. Faustus prattled on about the dangers of Heaven, witch hunters and the possibility of open war. Crowley shook his head.

“. . . you disagree, Crowley?” Faustus asked, voice dripping with his usual disdain.

Crowley leaned back in his chair, shrugging. “I . . .” _Greendale is weakening._ “I . . . don’t, actually,” he admitted. Taking a deep breath, he removed his sunglasses and met the gazes of those around the table. “The Dark Lord’s power is waning.”

They stared at him. He thought that if he had not been a demon – if they had not all seen his eyes, seen his wings – they may not have believed him. But they had seen Hastur and Ligur drag him to Hell. They accepted that he knew more of the Dark Lord’s ways than they did. So their protests died quickly, turning to ashen looks – worried lips, clasped hands. One warlock pressed his forehead against the cold surface of the table in a position of utter defeat.

“How . . . how can this be?” asked Constance Blackwood.

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t know. But it’s true. Greendale is not as protected as it once was and Heaven . . . I get the sense that they are circling us like vultures. We need to prepare. Prepare for the worst.”

Faustus looked surprised, but also somewhat pleased to hear this. “So, we are in agreement,” he said.

Constance clasped her beautiful, manicured hands as she turned to him. “The angel must be destroyed.”

Faustus and the others nodded. Crowley sat frozen – he shouldn’t have been shocked, but for the moment he was – but it was Anathema who turned to Father Blackwood. “Aziraphale is one of us now – he isn’t with those other angels.”

“And how are we to know that?” the high priest responded.

“Aziraphale wouldn’t harm a fly –” though something was going on with him, something Crowley couldn’t explain, because Aziraphale still wouldn’t _talk_ to him. Frustrated, he ran a hand harshly through his hair and scrubbed his face. “Ugh. I’m sick and tired of this, Faustus. Aziraphale is mine and under my protection and the coven will not touch him.”

A muscle in the priest’s jaw twitched. “He is a celestial. His blood could increase our power if, as you say, the Dark Lord is currently . . . unable to protect us.”

There were some murmurs of agreement to this. Crowley’s eyebrow twitched. “No one is drinking Aziraphale’s blood. For – _Someone’s sake_ – Faustus. Ugh.”

Faustus - always going straight for the cannibalism. Crowley had fought him for years over the _Feast of Feasts_ tradition – effectively banning any of his students at the Academy from participating. That was another reason they’d never gotten along. Now, Faustus huffed, but didn’t press the issue – probably realizing that if Crowley stood against him there wasn’t much he could do about it. And with the Dark Lord’s power weakening, the Church of Night needed all the supernatural help it could get.

They ended the meeting with no firm plans of action – the head teachers were remaining vigilante, protecting the grounds with a net of protective spells. Word was even being distributed to the hedge-witches and excommunicates, warning them of the situation and offering temporary shelter at the desecrated church. The Anti-Pope had been informed and was supposedly flying in from the Necropolis, not that Crowley expected the old man to be particularly useful.

Finally, Faustus and the others filed out of the chambers, but Crowley remained seated. He hunched forwards in pain as the headache worsened. Groaning into his hands, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut . . . and was surprised at the soft touch on his shoulder.

Anathema. She looked at him, concern plain in her dark eyes. “Crowley . . . what is it?” she asked quietly, even as the last of the witches closed the heavy wooden doors behind them. “There’s something more going on – isn’t there? What’s wrong?”

“Ugh. Nothing . . . just . . . headaches,” he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not . . .” she bit her lip. “It’s not about Aziraphale, is it? I mean – you meant it when you said he isn’t involved in this – right?”

He sighed, shaking his head. He pressed his fingers into his eyes, wishing he could will away the waves of pain still rolling through his skull. “I’m sure he’s not, but _something’s_ going on with him. We . . . we were doing well. Really well. But then he shut me out. Something’s clearly bothering him. I don’t want to think . . . but he won’t talk to me.”

Anathema frowned. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned in frustration, “but – listen – I’m not about to let Faustus get his claws in him.”

“. . . maybe, do you want _me_ to talk to him? I could try . . . maybe I could sense something –”

“You wanna read his aura?” Crowley asked, finally lowering his hands from his face. He squinted at the witch girl. “That actually work?”

“You’re a demon! _How_ are you so skeptical of auras?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

He shrugged. “I mean . . . if you want. I think he’d enjoy your visit, anyway.” He relaxed, trying to smile to reassure his friend. The pain was near constant now, but he told himself that it was nothing he couldn’t handle. And he liked the idea of Aziraphale having Anathema to talk to – especially as Crowley realized the atmosphere in the Spellman household had become a little chillier in recent weeks. He hoped that they could eventually get back to where they had been before Lucas’s murder, but for the moment things were tense.

Crowley felt guilty he wasn’t able to do more to help the situation, but all of these coven meetings, in addition to running the Academy, and the Boss’s voice echoing in and out of his head . . . he rubbed his face again. “Listen, I still need to meet with the dormitory staff and go over the new emergency plans. There are still a lot of orphans living here, and . . .”

“You’re worried,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

He rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck. “. . . yeah,” he admitted. “I’ll be here for a while yet. But if you wanna go over, feel free. I’m sure he’d love the company.”

* * *

Aziraphale paced the living room of the Spellman family home. And paced. _And paced_. He was wearing a track in their rugs, moving between the fireplace and the old radio, not really seeing the familiar walls and furniture – the couch, the wingback chairs, coffee table, bookshelves, lamps . . .

Crowley and Zelda were both at the academy, Hilda was working at the bookstore, Ambrose was out – probably drinking at the warlock gentleman’s club – and Sabrina was at Baxter High. Aziraphale had walked the length of the room several times. Normally, he would have sat and read, or gone for a walk through the town – visited Doctor Cee or stopped off at the library, or even just gone for a stroll through the park. The parks here weren’t as nice as Saint James, but it was still pleasant to be out and about.

But . . . today.

It had been one week ago today that Gabriel had confronted him in the bookstore, threatening and demanding information on the Academy of Unseen Arts. A week had passed in a flash and he hadn’t been able to summon the courage to confide in Crowley, or to think of how he would get out of this meeting. He wasn’t about to help Gabriel slaughter the witch children, but that left him with the question of what he would _actually_ do, instead. He knew that there were multiple protections and binding spells woven around the Spellman home and Aziraphale hoped that meant archangels would also be repelled. Maybe if he didn’t leave the house, he would at least be able to delay whatever was coming.

The cat, Salem, had been watching him for the past half hour, sitting on the ottoman, tail twitching. But when Aziraphale moved to pet him, the ears went back and he darted off, slinking behind the furniture and disappearing into the shadows. At that exact moment, the doorbell rang. 

Aziraphale felt the chill move through him and knew instinctively it was no salesman or neighbor on the other side of the door. He didn’t have to look – he could feel the presence, the angelic power shivering at the tips of his invisible wings.

_He_ was here now, standing on their property, apparently unbothered by all of the Spellman wardings and the morass of spells that encircled the place like an etheric moat. The protections Crowley had so carefully applied.

Aziraphale shuddered. A grim finality descended in the pit of his stomach. This was _it._ There was nothing else he could do and no where he could hide. _You can’t hide from Heaven._

He crossed the room slowly, feeling as though his legs were dragging through quicksand and mud. The front door unlatched and fell open before he reached it. Gabriel stood there, framed in the harsh midday winter sunlight. He smiled, ice-bright and unpleasant. “Aziraphale. There you are.”

_You should greet him._ But the words died in his throat. He stared as the archangel calmly crossed the threshold, stepping into the Spellman family foyer without so much as the slightest twinge of discomfort. Aziraphale’s heart was already pounding harder, lurching in his chest. His palms dripped with sweat.

“Well, isn’t this fantastic?” said Gabriel, clapping his hands and surveying the home. “Our enemy’s power is weakening dramatically. Can you believe this was once the most fortified spot on planet Earth, against the forces of Good? I mean, wow, have they been letting things slip lately. Of course the forces of Evil were always destined to fold beneath Heaven’s might. Thrilling to see it first hand, though.”

_Why? How?_ Was it his fault somehow – Aziraphale chilled at the thought that he had somehow caused this rift in the world. Perhaps unknowingly the marriage of an angel and a high-ranking demon had forced a wedge in Lucifer’s powers. Perhaps Aziraphale had made this a weak point, allowing Gabriel access beyond the demonic boundaries.

Gabriel’s eyes settled on him, hard and blank. “I must say, you’re not being a very obliging host, Aziraphale.”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Cold sweat was dripping down his back and he flinched instinctively when Gabriel took a step towards him. The archangel’s smile widened, very nearly turning genuine. But still unpleasant. “Now, now, Aziraphale. Is that any way to greet me?”

“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you,” he said, his voice sounding small even to his own ears.

Gabriel’s expression hardened. “Come now, Aziraphale. You must have something. We know some of it – the coven is called the Church of Night, their high priest is Faustus Blackwood, it’s not clear how your Crowley ties into it –”

_His_ Crowley? _If only . . ._ Aziraphale’s breath hitched. He tried to back away from Gabriel without making it obvious that was what he was doing. “He . . . he runs the school,” there, that was something and perhaps harmless enough as far as information went.

“So you did find out something,” Gabriel laughed, incredulous. “Well, you must know how it’s being defended then. How we get in.”

“No . . .” he shook his head, trembling as Gabriel stalked closer, crowding his space. The back of his legs hit the coffee table and he stumbled, Gabriel’s hands fisted in his jacket, yanking him up.

“They gather there, don’t they? It’s the crux of this place. Important to the Adversary.”

His throat was closed up. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t look Gabriel in the eyes.

Gabriel was too close, it hurt too much. Aziraphale shut his eyes, feeling the other man’s breath hot against his face. One of Gabriel’s hands remained grasping his jacket, the other trailed up to his hair, tugging it roughly. Aziraphale winced. 

“We will purify them by fire.”

The front door opened and Aziraphale’s panic somehow reached new heights. He felt like his body was going to shatter into a million pieces, like porcelain.

“Dad? Aziraphale? Anybody home?” Sabrina’s voice echoed through the front foyer.

Gabriel released him, but it was difficult for Aziraphale to feel any relief, with the long slow smirk forming on the archangel’s face. His blood already felt like ice water in his physical corporation. “ _Please_ . . .” he whispered, voice hoarse, “ _Gabriel_.”

Sabrina appeared in the living room, dropping her school bag onto one of the chairs. She frowned slightly at the sight of Gabriel. “Hi . . .”

“And how are you today, young lady?” Gabriel asked, in the tone he used on mortals. His expression was carefully neutral. Aziraphale stood behind him, eyes darting from the archangel to Sabrina, wringing his hands. He wanted to say something – give her some warning – but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. And if he did, then – then Gabriel might decide to eliminate her. _Purify by fire._

Sabrina eyed the stranger warily, her eyes also flicking over to Aziraphale, and back. “I’m fine. Can we help you with something?”

“I’m an old friend of Aziraphale’s. Just stopping in for a chat.”

Aziraphale paled. He nearly saw the thought turning in her head. _An angel._ But she was a clever girl, she didn’t give anything away on her face. “Well,” she said evenly, “nice to meet you.”

“Isn’t it? I’m hoping we can all get to know each other better.”

“S-Sabrina has homework to do . . . don’t you?” stammered Aziraphale. She met his gaze across the room, nodding ever-so slightly.

“That’s right . . . Yeah, I should probably go do that,” she said. She walked around the circumference of the living room, without taking her eyes off them. “I’ll just be upstairs,” she said to Aziraphale. He nodded, breathing out a sigh of relief as Sabrina headed for the staircase.

Gabriel spun around and grinned at him. “You want to protect her don’t you? That devil-spawn – filthy – witch.”

“I – please –”

Gabriel grabbed his arms, propelling Aziraphale back, into the wall. He hit the corner of the door frame, a flash of pain shooting through his shoulder as Gabriel held him there, grip brutal and bruising. “This is amazing . . . you really are a degenerate, aren’t you? A filthy traitor.”

“No . . . I . . . please, she’s just a child, _please,_ Gabriel, don’t involve her in this –”

“She’s a demon. Born fallen. Outside of God’s kingdom. They all are. You know this.” Gabriel forced a leg between his, grinding into him. Aziraphale was pinned, when he tried to twist away, Gabriel knocked him backwards. His head cracked against the wooden door frame and white sparks shot behind his eyes.

Aziraphale felt Gabriel’s hand grip his head again – there was no way to get away from him. Tears burned the corners of his eyes and Gabriel’s voice filled his head: “you are pathetic, Aziraphale. A sorry excuse for an angel, so disgustingly soft. Feeling for these . . . low creatures. You know you can’t escape Heaven. You can’t hide from God.”

_God’s not here,_ Aziraphale thought wildly, blasphemously. But he had not heard Her voice since the Garden. And he could not see Her in Gabriel’s actions. In the hatred pouring off the archangel in waves.

“Satan has no more power here. We are going to burn Greendale to the ground. We are going to leave a smoking crater like we did at Sodom, at Gomorrah. Sodom . . . Gomorrah . . . Greendale. Yes, I like the sound of that.” 

“But . . . there are people here. Normal, mortal people! Innocent –”

“ _None_ of them are innocent,” Gabriel snarled. He stepped back only enough to backhand Aziraphale across the face. He was thrown off balance and nearly fell. “And don’t you dare talk back to me. I’m the archangel Gabriel and you’ve failed yet another holy mission. You’re going to watch this time. Watch as we slaughter every single person here. Watch as we cleanse the earth of these monsters.”

* * *

Sabrina shivered at the sound of the angel’s voice. She had gone upstairs, but used a spell to listen in on the conversation happening below. She had known something was wrong by the look on Aziraphale’s face, and everything she’d heard had only confirmed that.

Aziraphale was in trouble . . . but it was worse than that. If this stranger was an angel, like she thought he was, it sounded like they were _all_ in danger.

So much for the treaty. So much for the union of Heaven and Hell. _Watch as we slaughter every single person here._

She couldn’t believe angels – like Aziraphale – were going to kill everyone in an entire city. And the man sounded so _into_ it – excited. It was clear that Aziraphale couldn’t stop him, and if he was as powerful as the beings that had attacked Ambrose, she wouldn’t be able to fight him off alone, either. They needed help.

Salem walked up to her, tail twitching, and meowed. She stopped listening, sitting up on the floor of her bedroom, and gathered her familiar in her arms. “I _know_ , Salem. I know. This guy’s bad news. Dangerous. Aziraphale is scared and . . . the coven. Dad. _This_ is what they’ve been so scared of – Heaven, the angels. I have to warn them.”

“Meow.”

“I know it’s dangerous! But it’s just as dangerous to stay here – you heard that guy! Aziraphale’s obviously scared he’s going to hurt me. It sounds like he enjoys hurting people. I’m not any safer hiding up in my room. And besides, I have to warn my dad, and Ambrose, and my aunties, before they try to come home. I have to get to the coven and tell them the angels are here. I . . .” she pressed a kiss to the top of the cat’s head, feeling his pointy ears tickle her chin and then dropped him gently on the floor as she stood. She crept to the hallway, moving as quietly as she could.

“Meow!” Salem ran passed her, darting down the stairs in a blur of black fur.

“Salem!” she whisper-yelled after him. But when she heard a crash of pots and pans in the kitchen, she realized her familiar was creating a distraction.

“What was that? Is someone else here?” she heard the angels go to investigate the noise and quickly ran down the rest of the stairs and out the front door.

* * *

Gabriel turned to him, furious. “Is this some kind of trick?!” he demanded. They stood in the kitchen, where a dozen plates had been knocked off the counter, smashed on the ground in jagged shards and pans had been sent crashing to the floor.

“N-no,” Aziraphale stared at him, wide-eyed, not sure how Gabriel could be seeing this as his fault. But then, it had always been like this, hadn’t it? Something would go wrong, or inconvenience him, and it would be Aziraphale’s fault.

He shuddered as Gabriel pushed him backwards, his slippers crunching bits of broken glass. Gabriel shoved him against the island counter. “You need a reminder of who’s in charge here –”

Gabriel grabbed him by the back of the neck, forcing their mouths together in a violent mashing mockery of a kiss. He bit Aziraphale’s lip hard enough to draw blood and Aziraphale gasped, trying but unable to break out of his grasp. The archangel was as strong as a stone statue. He turned Aziraphale around, shoving him over the counter.

Suddenly he stopped. Aziraphale was dizzy, confused – and realized with a sinking feeling that there was someone else standing in the kitchen. He felt a wave of humiliation rush over him, like he was sinking – drowning. He stood slowly, shaking, as Gabriel stepped away from him. “And who are you?”

Aziraphale turned to see Anathema standing in the door, her eyes wide with shock and horror. He wanted to call to her – to say something, explain – _but how could he possibly explain?_

Anathema saw a glimpse of the archangel’s aura – brilliant as the sun and burning – and spun on her heel and ran.

It probably saved her life, he thought, as Gabriel turned back to him, confused but almost . . . almost amused. “Such a lot of company you get here, Aziraphale. She was one of your witches, wasn’t she? Think she’s about to run off and tell Crowley what she’s seen.” He smirked. “It seems your position here is about to become more interesting . . .” he grasped Aziraphale by the cheek, patting the side of his face. “Let’s see how gentle that demon husband of yours is when he hears you’ve been stepping out on him with another man. HA!” he laughed as the rest of the blood left Aziraphale’s face.

His body was entirely numb then, as Gabriel put his hands on him. “And if you want to beg for Heaven’s mercy, when all is said and done, you’ll be very careful to do everything I say . . .”

“No – _no_ ,” Aziraphale shook his head.

“You’ll do as I say, or I’ll go upstairs and rip that demon-girl’s skin off in front of you,” snarled Gabriel. “I’ll burn her alive an inch at a time and make you watch.”

Aziraphale shuddered. He knew he had no choice – he couldn’t fight the archangel. Never could. Despair swallowed him then like a vast, endless tunnel.

* * *

Sabrina was on her bicycle, sailing down the winding country lanes on her way to the Academy of Unseen Arts. The ground was icy with patches of snow and the wheels slid. It was dangerous, but she figured they were all in danger right now. She needed to reach the Academy. She figured her dad would be there, and would know how to contact the others if they weren’t with him.

She had to warn them, had to get help, had to . . . somebody was standing in the middle of the old deer trail she was cycling down and Sabrina stopped sharply, nearly crashing. She was breathing heavily, her breath coming out in puffy silver clouds, and not prepared to deal with anything else crazy happening today . . . but the figure didn’t move. They also didn’t breathe, apparently, as nothing misted the cold December air in front of their face. They were deceptively petite and slim, dressed in a rumpled black uniform, their black hair a mess and flies buzzing around their face.

Sabrina recognized them from the trial at the desecrated church, where they had sat on the horned throne and looked down at her and her father with disdain. “. . . It’s Beelzebub, isn’t it?” she asked, fighting to sound more confident than she really felt. Beelzebub was one of the powerful old ones. Even mortals knew their name.

The demon walked slowly towards her, and large buzzing black flies lifted off of them like a swirling cloud, buzzing around Sabrina, darting in and out like they were judging, evaluating her. She gripped the handlebars of her bike and stared straight ahead, willing herself not to blink or to flinch. She was Crowley’s daughter. She wasn’t going to be pushed around by a demon, no matter how old or powerful.

“Sabrina,” the Lord of the Flies said, it coming out like _Zzzabrina_ instead. And was she imagining it, or were the bugs themselves echoing the word in the pitch of their humming?

“What do you want?”

“In a hurry are we?”

“There’s . . .” she paused, unsure of how much she should tell Beelzebub.

“We’re all on the same side here, girl,” they said, as though hearing her thoughts.

“Really? Cause I kind of got the sense you didn’t exactly like my father.”

The demon smirked, apparently amused or impressed with her attitude. “I don’t exactly like anybody. But we’re all here to serve the Dark Lord, aren’t we? If he’s in some danger, you can tell me. And you _should_. Greendale’s running out of allies.”

Sabrina swallowed, sensing truth in those words. The angel’s voice was still in her head. She hadn’t liked the way he’d talked about their town, the thrill in his tone at the mention of war, slaughter . . . “The angels . . . they lied. I think they lied about the treaty.”

“Yesss . . .” Beezlebub agreed, inclining their head. “Heaven lies. What did you see, _Sabrina Spellman_?” The flies buzzed sharply on the ‘s’ sounds, swooping around Sabrina’s blonde hair like a torrent, a cyclone of little bodies with razor wings. She shivered, wishing she’d had time to grab a coat on her way out of the house, but she’d been too scared to risk the time, had barely thought to grab her boots. A few random snowflakes drifted onto her sweater, but most of the snow fell away from them – as though the demon were pushing it away. If it snowed too deeply, she wouldn’t be able to ride her bike anymore.

“I have to go.”

Beezlebub’s eyes darkened. They gripped the bicycle’s handlebars over Sabrina’s hands, their fingers curled over her skin, burning. “What did you see?”

“There’s one of them at my house. An angel. I think he’s . . . I think he’s powerful. I have to warn everyone.”

“Everyone, in this case, being Crowley?” the demon hissed out a breath. “He can’t help you. Not by himself. He’s not powerful enough.”

Sabrina tried to yank her hands back. “You don’t know that!”

“None of us are. This shouldn’t be happening. Greendale is meant to be the seat of His power . . .”

“His? You mean the Dark Lord, right?”

“The Boss . . .” Beelzebub nodded. They released Sabrina, but didn’t get out of the way. The flies circled them, some crawled over the demon’s human face. “You know . . . you could be more powerful. You could be powerful enough to help defend this place. I see the potential in you, it’s boiling there, just out of reach.”

Sabrina frowned. “What . . . what do you mean?”

“You haven’t accepted your full gifts yet, have you? Haven’t signed your name.”

_Haven’t signed your name._

_The Book of the Beast._

No, she had not . . . she had heard that witch’s powers increased when they finalized their contract with the Dark Lord, but . . . “Would that really be enough? If the rest of the coven can’t stop them–”

“You’re not like the rest of this pathetic coven,” the demon snapped. “Foolish girl, don’t you see that? The demon blood in them is diluted by centuries. Your father is the Serpent of Eden. When you accept your full powers, you’ll be like him.”

_Like him._

Did that mean she would be a demon? A shudder crawled up her spine. She didn’t want to be a demon – to be evil. But her dad wasn’t evil. She knew that. She knew it wasn’t as black and white as Good versus Evil. But still . . . signing away her name in the book . . . everything in her recoiled against the idea.

But what if she didn’t have a choice?

“Would I be strong enough to defend Greendale?” she asked, looking Beelzebub straight in the eye. The flies buzzed as though in approval, dipping and swaying. One brushed against her face and she resisted the urge to swat it away, not breaking eye contact. “Would I be strong enough to help my dad? Would I be strong enough to – to fight angels?”

A slow smile spread across Beelzebub’s face. “Listen to me, Sabrina Spellman . . .” the demon spoke in a low, rumbling voice. “You will be strong enough to do anything.”

* * *

Crowley sat with Zelda in his office. They were taking a short break, having tea and he had dropped his cup, hands clutching his head. She shot up from her seat, moving to stand beside him. “Brother . . . what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Noth-”

“Don’t you dare tell me nothing. I am your sister and I demand you tell me the truth.”

Even through his agony, Crowley couldn’t help smiling slightly at her tone. Zelda. She would probably tell the Dark Lord off right to his face. He rubbed his eyes. “It’s . . . the Boss,” he admitted.

“. . . you mean the Dark Lord,” she said quietly. She probably would have had more doubts, if she hadn’t seen the torture _He_ had wrecked upon Crowley’s physical corporation only a week ago. Zelda sighed, standing behind his chair, and put her arms around him. “What is it this time?” she asked quietly.

“It’s because of Sabrina,” he swallowed. “She hasn’t signed . . . He . . . He’s determined to get her name in his book.”

“I told you she needs to sign,” Zelda muttered, but he knew her well enough to pick up on the trace of uncertainty in her voice. Her faith in the Dark Lord had been shaken.

“It’s worse than . . . for some reason I think Sabrina not signing is weakening the town.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did. None of this is normal. Of course he wants souls, he wants followers, he wants witches, but this is . . . more than that. It’s different. He _needs_ Sabrina. I wish I knew why.”

“. . . don’t you think. I mean, this is our side, our . . . family.”

“I don’t want him to do to her what he’s doing to me. If she signs his book, he’ll have control over her. He’ll own her. I can’t . . .” 

“It’s a choice we all made. You don’t look down on Hilda and I for it, do you?”

“Of course not!” he reached up to grasp her arm, where it was curled around his collar.

The door to his office crashed open then, and Anathema stood there, eyes wide, hair in wild disarray. She was breathing heavily and trembling from head to toe. “Sister Device, what is the meaning of this?” Zelda demanded, straightening and walking around Crowley’s desk. “You can’t just barge into the headmaster’s office –”

“Crowley – Zelda – you have to listen to me! I – I saw – with Aziraphale –”

“What is it?” Crowley asked, rising from his seat. The room swayed around him, but he fought to focus on Anathema, the terror he saw in her eyes. “What’s happened? What did you see?”

Even Zelda softened somewhat, guiding Anathema to a chair by the fireplace. She took a throw blanket and draped it around the young witch’s trembling shoulders. “Aura . . . an aura like nothing I’d ever seen . . .”

“Anathema – what?” Crowley demanded.

She drew a long shuddering breath, before looking him dead in the eyes. “I went to your house . . . to see Aziraphale, like we talked about. He – he wasn’t alone. There was a man there with him. No. Not a man,” she shook her head. “His aura was . . . incredible, I thought it was going to burn my eyes out. So bright, like . . . brighter than Aziraphale’s. An angel. A powerful, powerful angel.”

Zelda looked at him, devastated and furious. “Crowley . . .”

He held up a hand, forestalling her. All of his focus was trained on Anathema. “Go on . . .”

“He . . . I ran, I had to run right away. I’ve never felt anything like it. The power and . . . and the anger. But . . . but they weren’t – they were together. Like, like _together,_ I think. They were-” she made some frantic hand gestures. “Kinda . . . embraced.”

Crowley felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He felt the air leave his chest in a rush and nearly deflated. Zelda was glaring daggers, but he knew her wrath wasn’t directed at him so much as . . . “ _Aziraphale,”_ she snarled. “That traitor! That miserable . . . after everything you’ve done for him. Constantly defending him . . .”

“Zelda . . .”

“He does this! Insults you – your honor –”

“My . . . honor?” he wheezed, unable to help himself. He felt like crying, so maybe that was why he laughed a sharp, bitter sound. Zelda and Anathema both fell silent. He sucked in his breath, willing himself steady. He put a hand on Zelda’s shoulder. “I . . . I don’t know. Something . . . it doesn’t add up. It’s not right.”

“It’s not right because he’s betrayed us!”

“I know what I saw,” said Anathema, her expression grave. “Crowley, I’m so sorry, but . . . Zelda’s right. I saw it. Aziraphale isn’t . . . he isn’t who we thought.”

Crowley frowned. The pain was back and it was getting harder to keep standing. He gazed into the fire, thinking for a moment. “But . . . you both saw how happy he was to be with us. I don’t believe he could fake that.”

“Maybe he _likes_ us, fine, but he’s still an angel . . . still loyal to Heaven,” said Anathema.

Zelda nodded. “You must face facts, brother.”

“What are the facts?” he asked, rubbing his head. He wanted to lie down. “He’s _not_ been pining for Heaven. He’s enjoyed being on Earth, being with us. He wouldn’t raise a hand to hurt witches, even to save himself. He’s . . .” _something’s been bothering him for weeks. He won’t talk to me. Something bad has happened to him, in the past, I know that. Something more than the Bastille and . . ._ “Now you see him with an angel. There’s pieces missing.”

“What pieces?” Zelda demanded.

“If I knew that, they wouldn’t be missing!” he turned back to Anathema. “And what was Aziraphale’s aura like, when you saw them together . . .”

Anathema frowned. “I don’t . . . it was too sudden, too shocking. I was overwhelmed by the other angel’s aura . . . I didn’t notice.”

“It hardly matters,” said Zelda. “We know now, he’s a traitor.”

“Yeah, but to whom?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow at her. “He’s stuck between Heaven and us. So, either way he’s betraying someone.”

He told Anathema to go lie down, and to keep everything she had seen between them for now. He told Zelda to summon Hilda, Ambrose and Sabrina. They had to have a family meeting before they went home – would the enemy angel still be there? Should they be gearing up for a battle? Or would the place be empty? Or would Aziraphale still be there, not knowing that they knew . . . _what_ did they know?

He groaned loudly, pacing his office and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey.

Ten minutes later, Hilda and Ambrose were with him, both looking drawn and exhausted by worry. He wished he could make it better, make things easier. “Where’s Sabrina?”

“I couldn’t find her,” said Zelda.

He felt his blood run cold, but before he could panic, Zelda had already continued: “don’t worry, you know that girl – she’s most likely with her mortal friends.”

“That’s right,” said Hilda. “They’ve probably gone to the cinema, or something.”

He forced himself to breathe out. His sisters were right, of course . . . he shook his head, and slowly related to Hilda and Ambrose what he and Zelda had learned.

Ambrose scowled. “I told you he was no good, uncle,” he muttered.

Hilda looked like she was about to cry.

“We don’t know anything, yet . . .” he told them, and repeated the doubts he had voiced to Zelda. “Something is off about all of it. I want us to go back to the house, prepared of course . . . but don’t jump on Aziraphale until we know more.”

“What _more_ are you hoping to discover, Uncle?” Ambrose asked. “He’s a traitor. As I thought, he’s been selling information back to Heaven . . .”

“There’s no evidence of that,” said Crowley. “All we know is he’s been seen with another angel.”

“Even you must admit that’s suspicious!” said Zelda.

He nodded. Crowley was leaning against his desk, arms crossed. He tilted his head back. This was such a mess. “I know . . . I know. And I will protect all of you, you know that. I’m hoping I can get him to tell me what’s going on . . . all of it . . . but . . . be prepared for anything, I guess. Be prepared for a fight.”

Ambrose nodded, tapping his knee nervously. He looked eager to get revenge against the angels. Crowley couldn’t blame him. How could Crowley blame him? Angels had murdered Lucas.

And yet . . . Aziraphale was sad. There was something deeply wounded and fragile about the angel. He didn’t think it was his own wish fulfilment that he believed Aziraphale really loved them. The angel was always so happy, just doing normal things with them, eating breakfast, listening to the radio, going for a walk in the park . . . But maybe he just loved Heaven more. He was an angel, after all. He was good. Heaven was good. They were on the wrong side of it, Crowley knew that. But he’d hoped . . .

“Crowley . . . you okay, love?” he shook himself out of his stupor to see Hilda watching him with wet, concerned eyes. She was pale and shaken.

“. . . ‘m fine,” he said, with no sincerity whatsoever.

“Prepare yourselves,” said Zelda, gazing at them each in turn. “We have to go.”

* * *

The house was wrecked. Furniture toppled and broken into splintering fragments, dishes thrown, even the curtains and drapes had been torn to shreds as though by wild animals. There were holes in the walls and the windows were smashed in, glass littered the carpets in a thick glittering ocean of shards. It was dark in the living room, the lamps thrown around, the fire down to simmering red embers.

_Like a child throwing a tantrum,_ Crowley thought, perturbed by what he saw. With a wave of his hand he righted the chairs and couches in the living room, so they would have somewhere to sit. Furniture creaked and scraped against the floor in the dark house. The winter wind blew through the broken windows, but he ignored it.

“. . . Gabriel,” he said, taking in the sight of the other angel. _Gabriel – who had been Aziraphale’s boss, back in Heaven, right?_ He felt his forehead creasing into a frown. _Gabriel, who – according to Aziraphale - had insisted upon the marriage. The treaty. Gabriel, who had been the boss of those other angels too, right? The Order of Innocents._

Crowley regarded him, keeping his expression blank.

Gabriel smiled at him, across the wreckage of the Spellman family home. Seemingly unbothered that they had appeared, perhaps even waiting for them to show up. Aziraphale stood beside him, looking smaller than usual, face devoid of all colour, going almost grey. He didn’t look at any of them. His clothes were crumpled and torn, in as much disarray as their house. There were marks – bite marks visible along his neck and bruises in the shape of fingers and a welt darkening on one cheek. It hardly looked like the result of a romantic tryst in Crowley’s mind, and he felt cold, the pieces finally slowly sliding together in his mind.

The others were having a different interpretation of things, though. Zelda and the others glared daggers at both angels. They stood behind him stiffly, and Crowley gestured for everyone to take a seat on the newly righted furniture.

“Let’s talk,” he said.

“ _Talk_?” Gabriel laughed loudly, shaking his head. “You want to talk?”

“. . . humor me,” Crowley spoke without inflection, crossing the room, heedless of the debris crunching beneath his snakeskin boots. He sat in one of the tall wingback chairs, elbows perched on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of him. He had his dark glasses on, and he hoped he radiated a calm he didn’t truly feel.

After a moment, the archangel shrugged. “Sure. Why not. I’m going to kill you all, anyway. Might as well talk it over, first.”

Zelda and the others, taking their cue from Crowley, followed and sat stiffly in the chairs on the left of the fireplace, beside him. Hilda and Zelda sat together on the small sofa, Ambrose perched on the ottoman, elbows on his knees. They were all clearly tense.

Gabriel, laughing, took the seat opposite Crowley, a smirk playing on his lips. Crowley wanted to punch him right in the face, but bided his time. “So. To what do we owe the visit of an archangel?”

“Hell’s hold on this pathetic town is weakening. Soon Heaven’s forces will sweep the land, wiping out the imperfections. Purifying with blood and fire. A great victory for the forces of Good.”

“I see,” said Crowley, as dispassionately as possible. “And the truce?”

“You’re about to declare the truce null and void.”

“ _I_ am?” one eyebrow quirked behind his dark glasses.

Gabriel’s smugness intensified. Aziraphale hovered behind the chair in which the archangel was sitting, looking like he was going to his execution. His eyelashes were dark with dampness. He still would not look at them.

“You see,” said Gabriel, “Aziraphale has betrayed you.”

Crowley’s side of the room remained stoically silent and Gabriel frowned, apparently having expected more of a reaction. “Did you hear me? He’s _betrayed_ you. _You_ – a prince of Hell. Lain with your enemy. Come here,” he gestured for Aziraphale, who’s entire body flinched at the gesture.

“Aziraphale . . . no, come to me,” said Crowley, lowering his hands to his knees and sitting up straighter. He did his best to put on the mantle of ‘prince’ that they were all so determined to give him, infusing his voice with it.

For the first time, Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered to him, looking beyond terrified. Crowley felt his stomach clench into knots. He hated seeing that expression on his angel’s face – and he knew, beyond a doubt now, that he couldn’t blame Aziraphale for what was happening. But Gabriel was more powerful than him – with Satan’s power weakened and his own power effectively hobbled by the blasted headaches, he couldn’t risk an all-out fight with an archangel. And his family was caught in the middle. He had to manoeuvre carefully. He held his expression, relying on the glasses to make him unreadable. 

“You swore an oath in that church, didn’t you?” Crowley asked, voice quiet but intense. “To obey me. So come. Here.”

A tremor ran through Aziraphale, like a tree caught in a violent storm. He looked as though he would have fainted, had he been mortal. All eyes in the room were on the angel now – Zelda, holding herself rigidly straight-backed and imperious, Hilda looking sick and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, Ambrose, knee bouncing nervously, anticipating a fight.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but only a gust of air escaped. He shuffled forwards, pale and shaking, eyes drifting to the carpet again. He moved like he was weighted with chains, and shuddered like a gust of wind would blow him apart.

Gabriel frowned, but watched with a sort of intensity that made Crowley’s skin crawl. “Ah. You want to punish him yourself, first? I understand.”

Crowley ignored him, but couldn’t ignore the way Aziraphale reacted to the words, visibly cringing. When he was close enough, Crowley snapped his fingers, transforming the old wingback chair he was seated on into a wider loveseat. He pulled Aziraphale down next to him, hating the way the angel winced and trembled. He wrapped an arm around his back, holding him in place.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” he said, voice low. He wished he could communicate more of what he was feeling. Crowley’s skin prickled as he glanced at the archangel, a being with the power of a nuclear bomb ready to go off in his living room. He had never wished for more power, never reached out to his Boss since the very beginning, but now . . .

“I –” Aziraphale’s breath hitched. He was shaking, but he still pressed against Crowley’s side, leaning into him. A tear leaked out of his shut eyes, sliding down the side of his face. Crowley yearned to pull him close and kiss him. “He’s right – I’m – a traitor.”

“Well . . . now, that’s not what I asked,” said Crowley, unable to stop himself from reaching up and wiping the tears away with his hand. Aziraphale frowned, gasping. Crowley repeated his question: “what happened?”

“I . . . he . . . Gabriel was going to kill the children. The students. He wanted information. And then he came here . . . he . . . Sabrina came home. She’s upstairs. He was going to hurt . . . kill her. He was going to kill her if I didn’t . . . If I didn’t do . . . the things he said.”

“Well,” Crowley glanced around Aziraphale, to where his sisters and nephew were sitting, horrified expressions on their faces. “Would any of us have acted differently, in that case?”

Hilda, openly weeping, shook her head, sobbing into her handkerchief. Zelda held herself stony still, but her face was pale and her hands clutched the ends of her armrests so hard her knuckles were pure white. “This is monstrous,” she said to Gabriel. “How dare you come into our home and – and –”

“I can do what I want,” replied the archangel evenly. Amused by their anger. Thriving on it.

“Has he always been like this?” Crowley asked quietly, but he felt he already knew the answer. Aziraphale’s fears, always acting like he thought Crowley was going to be angry, to hurt him . . . it hadn’t been about him being a demon, it had been about Gabriel. _Fucking_ Gabriel.

Aziraphale nodded against his shoulder, curling into him as Crowley tightened his grip, holding him close. “He – always – for-for eighty years,” he choked.

Ambrose shook his head, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Fucking Hell . . .”

Zelda stood, pushing herself out of her chair in a cold fury. “It seems we have only one enemy here.”

Ambrose stood after her, shaking, as he stared at the archangel. “It’s been _you_ behind all of it, hasn’t it? Those other angels . . . the ones who killed Lucas? And – and not Aziraphale, at all.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gabriel snarled. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me. You’re fucking worms. Heaven is going to win. We’re going to kill all of you.”

Crowley sucked in his breath. The headaches had started again, rolling hot and red behind his eyes. His throat was dry. His back continued to ache where the Dark Lord had ripped out his wings. He didn’t know what he could do to protect them. He held Aziraphale close to him, pressing a kiss to the angel’s forehead.

“If we die, we die together, then,” said Zelda firmly.

* * *

Sabrina felt the weight of the bone pen, its silver nub soaked with blood. She swallowed. Beelzebub held the Book of the Beast, it’s wide leather cover open, the pages fluttering in the chill December wind. Sabrina looked down at the page, pressing the nub of the pen against the thick vellum.

_This is it . . ._ a voice in her head said.

_No turning back._

She had seen her mother’s ghost – spirit – echo – in the grove, the night of her Dark Baptism. Yelling for her to run. She felt a dizzying rush as she stared down at the page, her vision tunneling. Blood roared in her ears. Was this really what she wanted?

“ _Sign_ ,” said Beelzebub, and the flies buzzed around them, landing on the pages and walking over the names of the other witches and warlocks who had signed ahead of her, their blood dried and pressed like dead flowers beneath the cursed pages.

She swallowed. Her aunties had signed this book. Ambrose had. Prudence. Her father hadn’t needed to sign, had fallen alongside Lucifer at the dawn of time. This was her destiny, wasn’t it? Carved out for her eons before she was born.

“ _Sign_ ,” Beelzebub pressed. “The archangel Gabriel is in your house now, with your family. He will slaughter them. This is the only way to even the playing field. To stop him.”

Sabrina closed her eyes, took one last deep breath, and let her hand move along the paper, signing her name.

* * *

Crowley felt it first. The shift in the air. The faint scent of ozone and static crackling over his skin. His headache melted away as though it had never been, the pressure lifting and leaving him feeling . . . exhilarated. Strong. _Powerful_ – like he had _reserves_ of untapped power flowing beneath his skin. His physical corporation was glowing with it.

He sat back, with the faintest flicker of his mind he redoubled all of the wards and protections around the property. He constructed invisible shields the likes of which not even an archangel would be able to budge. Broken glass slid up off the floor, sliding into the empty window-frames and repairing itself. Furniture righted, drapes stitched themselves back together, the fireplace roared to life and the lamps hopped back up onto the end-tables and flicked on, washing the house in light.

Gabriel frowned, looking around in confusion. “You can’t intimidate me with your parlour tricks . . . I’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley settled back, next to Aziraphale, taking one of the angel’s hands in his own. “No,” he smiled at the archangel. “You’re really _not_ , are you?” 

Aziraphale was also blinking at him, and looking around the Spellman family home, confused and shivering. “What . . . what _is_ that?” Aziraphale asked, sensing the change in etheric energy fields. Lay lines were re-routing, shifting themselves invisibly around the Spellman family home.

“I don’t know,” Crowley whispered back, shaking his head, unable to keep the smile off his face. “But it feels . . . good.”

Gently, Crowley released Aziraphale, and rose from their seat. He stood before Gabriel. He flexed and felt the dark wings burst from his back, completely healed and whole. His body was humming with energy. He snapped his fingers and the house finished its repairs. The others looked around, wide-eyed.

“Uncle . . . what did you do?”

He shrugged, not taking his eyes off the archangel. “It seems the tables have turned.”

Another snap of his fingers, and iron chains shot out of the floor, wrapping themselves around Gabriel’s arms and legs, pinning him to the couch. For the first time, the archangel looked properly startled. “What . . . what is the meaning of this? What do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it _look_ like I’m doing?” Crowley cocked his head to one side, regarding him. “You had no right to come in here, to threaten my daughter and assault my husband. Greendale itself is off limits to your kind, and you violated the terms of the holy/unholy treaty with your actions. As you yourself pointed out, I am a _prince_ of Hell now, no minor demon for you to squabble with, no warlock whose death you can sweep under the rug. And this is _Greendale_ – Lucifer’s home. Heaven isn’t going to move to save you, not when you let yourself in here. I believe you will find you have badly miscalculated.”

Gabriel stared at him for a moment, before attempting to break out of his bonds. When he found he could not, colour flushed up his neck. He gritted his teeth, glaring at him with complete contempt. “How – _how_ are you doing this? You’re just a – demon scumbag – I’m – I’m the archangel fucking –”

“Well,” said Crowley, cutting him off. “You _were_.”

The silence that descended was deafening. Crowley’s smile widened. “Look. If there’s one thing Hell knows how to do, it’s punish the guilty. And you are definitely guilty – guilty of breaking both celestial and infernal treaties, threatening the family of a prince of darkness, harassing and assaulting said family . . . oh, and that’s not even getting into whatever you did to Aziraphale before I met him.”

“I’m not on trial here!” Gabriel sputtered, face purpling with rage as he tried and failed to escape his bonds.

“Oh, but I think you’ll find that you _are._ Now then –” Crowley calmly walked the length of the living room, surveying the miraculously repaired furniture and the walls. The magic wards newly in place, thrumming with more strength than he’d ever been able to manifest before in all the thousands of years of his existence.

What was this? He felt more power than he’d ever known – even for a demon, it was an incredible rush. He turned back to the others. “Zelda, Hilda and Ambrose Spellman are your jury. Aziraphale is the witness. And I’m the judge. How about that?”

Aziraphale was staring at him in utter shock, he looked almost ready to collapse out of his seat. Crowley crossed the room again to stand before him. He knelt carefully in front of the chair, taking Aziraphale’s hands in his. He vanished the sunglasses with a thought, so that he could meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “I’m sorry, angel, I’m so, so sorry. But I need you to be strong for me right now. This will all be over soon.”

Aziraphale was barely breathing. His grey-blue eyes were haunted, so sad and lost, but gradually they focused on Crowley, seemed to take in his words. He swallowed and nodded.

“Good. I need you to tell us now, angel. Tell us all of it. Tell us everything. And trust us. We’re your family.”

Gabriel yelled something and Aziraphale flinched. Crowley silenced the archangel with a wave of his hand, gagging him.

Aziraphale blinked, staring for a moment over Crowley’s shoulder at the bound and gagged archangel.

He took a shuddering breath, and began to speak in a low, quiet voice. It was scarcely more than a whisper, but the house was so silent they could all hear him quite clearly. “I . . . I was stationed on Earth in the beginning,” he said. “I was in Babylon and Rome and . . . all those places. It wasn’t so bad back then. I was intimidated by the archangels, of course, but I rarely saw them. Then . . . then I suppose it all changed in the 1940s . . .”

_Right,_ Crowley thought. _80 years ago,_ Aziraphale had said he’d been assigned to be Gabriel’s secretary. He thought of the dread in the angel’s eyes and voice when he’d told him that, and Crowley hadn’t understood it back then. Hadn’t _seen_ it.

Slowly, in a halting voice, Aziraphale told them what it had been like in Heaven, how the other angels had treated him, how Gabriel had begun to hound and harass him, finally getting Michael to place Aziraphale completely in his power, uncaring about what was going on behind closed doors and on visits to Earth. As Aziraphale told them about the abuse he had suffered, it took everything within Crowley not to cry. He had never felt more rage – more wrath – than he did now, towards the archangel currently chained in his living room. And looking at the faces of his family members, he saw the same emotions reflected there – devastation, horror, and brutal, burning anger.

Crowley rose from where he had been kneeling and slowly surveyed the group. “Well . . . I hardly need to remind you that angels cannot lie, do I? No,” he shook his head. “I think we all heard the truth in that.”

“Oh – oh, Aziraphale, I’m so sorry!” said Hilda in a burst of emotion. She crossed from where she had been sitting to join the angel on the love seat, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Aziraphale seemed shocked by her touch at first, but then hugged her back, crying into her shoulder.

“I’m so, so sorry, my love,” Hilda repeated. “We didn’t know – had no idea – oh –”

Crowley watched them for a moment, before turning to Zelda and Ambrose. “Well?” he said, arms spread. “What’s your verdict, jury?”

Ambrose let out a long breath. He jumped to his feet and began pacing, rubbing his hands over his face and hair. “It’s terrible, Uncle. Truly terrible. I never thought I would say this . . . but it seems I’ve been wrong about everything. Gabriel is the one to blame for all of it. Just promise me you’ll punish him for what he did to Lucas, as well.”

Crowley nodded solemnly. “Of course.”

He turned to Zelda. Her face was ashen, her lips trembling, though she had managed not to cry. Her gaze slid to Gabriel and she looked like she would rip him limb from limb herself. “Hurt him, brother,” she commanded.

“Yes,” said Hilda, wiping her eyes and staring at Crowley from where she sat with Aziraphale. “You know how I feel about people who hurt our family. Make sure he suffers everything Hell has to offer.” 

Crowley turned back to Gabriel, who had given up struggling and was beginning to look worried. Very worried. He twitched, and Crowley, after a wave of his hand, removed the gag. “It seems the jury is in agreement,” he said. “But you’ve heard all that. Any final words?”

Gabriel’s eyes were round and bugging out of his head. He looked at each of them and, apparently not liking what he saw there, settled his gaze back on Aziraphale, who was sagging against Hilda, not looking at him. “What . . . what about Aziraphale. Doesn’t he get a vote in your twisted play?”

“No,” said Crowley immediately.

Gabriel twitched again. “No?”

“No,” Crowley shook his head. “You see . . . Aziraphale’s nice. He’s sweet. He is an angel, after all. A proper one. And even if he said something about punishing you, he might feel bad about it afterwards, and we couldn’t have that. So no, he provided the evidence and now the verdict – it’s completely out of his hands.”

Gabriel tried once again to move, but found he could not. Crowley stood in front of him and raised a hand, moving it through the air above the archangel’s shoulder. Slowly, wings appeared there, forming out of the air. They were misty at first – like clouds – but became more and more solid as the moments passed. Gabriel started to sweat.

“You know . . . I never had the stomach for torture,” said Crowley, almost conversationally, “that’s why, first chance I got, I buggered off from Hell, came topside. First day of all days, y’know? Just wanted to mess about, create a bit of mischief. But people like you . . . well, you remind me why we need a place like Hell.” He leaned forwards, so that they were face-to-face. “I’d hate to think there was no justice in the universe.”

He grabbed Gabriel’s right wing, digging his hands in with a strength he had never before possessed. An unreal strength. He pulled.

Gabriel shrieked as his wing was ripped from his back, muscle and flesh peeling off in thick bloody strips. Crowley threw it away, heaving in a breath and staggered backwards, momentarily shocked at his own ability.

“What . . . what ARE you?!” Gabriel screamed. 

Crowley turned away, so that Gabriel wouldn’t see that he himself was shaken, and put his sunglasses back in place. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned Hastur and Ligur – two demons he knew wouldn’t have a problem with torture. They appeared in a flash, and somehow he just knew that they had not received the same influx of strength. But they felt it in him. He was now truly the ‘prince’ that the Dark Lord had made him. It was no longer an empty title, and they knew it. They stiffened and bowed before him. _Interesting . . ._

“Wha . . . what’cha need, Boss?” asked Hastur, seeming to choke on the words, but spitting them out anyway.

“Ain’t it obvious?” said Ligur, gesturing to the bloody wing and the bound archangel. “You want us to take him Downstairs for you, right?”

He nodded.

“You can’t do this!” screamed Gabriel, as Hastur and Ligur approached him. “Don’t touch me! You freaks! You – you’ll start the War! You’ll _really_ start the War! This time – your precious Earth – Greendale – it will all go up in flames!”

Crowley stared at the blood streaking his floor. Zelda and the others were staring at him, but they didn’t exactly disapprove. And the War had already started. Whether from his actions, or something else. He felt it in the air, the stirring of trumpets, the faint ripple of a strange, new power. It had begun . . . it was happening. The maelstrom was unfurling and there was nothing left to do anymore but ride the wave.

He smiled and gestured for the demons to go ahead.

“An’ what about the other one?” Hastur asked, gesturing at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sat still and pale on the couch. And the idea that he might think, even for a second, that Crowley would possibly – ever - do anything to hurt him was like an ice-pick to the gut. “He is _mine_ ,” he growled, and the voice that rose from his chest barely sounded familiar. It was the sound of ice breaking and the roar of hellfire. He shoved Hastur back a pace. “Aziraphale is _mine_. Always. From that day in the church to the last day of this universe.”

Hastur looked at him, terrified. “R-r-right, Boss. Whatever you say.” 

* * *

Hastur and Ligur vanished, taking Gabriel with them. Aziraphale sat frozen, Hilda next to him. They both stared at Crowley, who, for a second, had become a stranger.

Aziraphale could barely process it – everything had happened so fast, he felt like he was on one of those dreadful rollercoasters. Where had Crowley gotten the power to handle an archangel so easily? And . . . he shuddered, the tears pricking his eyes again. He couldn’t believe he had told them everything, shame and guilt roiled in his belly. He had almost thought Crowley would send him to Hell as well, be rid of his stupid, useless husband . . .

But as soon as the demons and Gabriel were gone, Crowley seemed to deflate. His wings melted away and he rocked back on his heels, slumping slightly. “Hrrngh.”

He spun around and staggered like a drunk, until he fell to his knees, again, beside the seat where Aziraphale was, resting his head suddenly in Aziraphale’s lap. Hilda slid out of the way, giving them space by going to join her sister.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. After a moment, he began running his hand over Crowley’s long red hair. The demon sighed. “I’m yours too, y’know,” he mumbled, voice slurring with exhaustion.

Aziraphale felt his heart lurch in his chest. “I thought . . . I thought you would _hate_ me.”

“Hate you?” one of Crowley’s hands found his and squeezed. “Never.”

Ambrose collapsed boneless, with a heavy sigh. “Does that mean . . . we got the bastard . . . is it over?”

Crowley closed his eyes. “No. It’s just begun.”

Zelda looked at him sharply. “What has?”

“The War between Heaven and Hell. The End of Days. The Apocalypse.” 

Aziraphale’s hand stilled against Crowley’s scalp. “What . . . what did you say?”

“I felt it. Come on, angel,” he said quietly, “you did too.”

And he had.

Something beyond the sudden influx of Satanic energy. Something rippling through Greendale, something freshly awakened and touching the borders of the town, before spreading out across the surface of the globe. A call to the four horse people. A call to arms for all angels and demons. A twinge in the energy fields that would echo down to the very core of the planet. Even the humans would have felt something, though they wouldn’t have known what it was. 

Ambrose was meanwhile staring at the ceiling, frowning. “Hey . . . has Sabrina _really_ been sitting quietly up in her room all this time?”

Zelda ran upstairs to check. A moment later her voice called down the stairs, “she’s not here!”

Aziraphale was as shocked as all of them – he had been so sure – “Wh – where is she?”

But Crowley was already drifting off, even in what must have been an extremely uncomfortable position, kneeling on the floor with his head on Aziraphale’s lap.

“She’ll . . . she’ll be alright though, right?” asked Hilda, looking around the room nervously. “One little witch . . . she doesn’t have anything to do with the Apocalypse.”


End file.
